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A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY 



A SENTIMENTAL 

JOURJVET 

THROUGH FRANCE & ITALY 

BY 

M'^YORICK 




BOSTON AND NEW YORK 

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 

MDCCCCV 



A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY 

THROUGH 

FRANCE AND ITALY 



THEY order, said I, this matter better in 
France. 
— You have been in France ? said my gen- 
tleman, turning quick upon me with the most 
civil triumph in the world. — Strange! quoth I, 
debating the matter with myself, that one- 
and-twenty miles' sailing, for 'tis absolutely no 
further from Dover to Calais, should give a 
man these rights. — I '11 look into them: so 
giving up the argument, — I went straight to 
my lodgings, put up half a dozen shirts and a 
black pair of silk breeches — <*the coat I have 
on," said I, looking at the sleeve, ^^will do*' 
— took a place in the Dover stage and the 
packet sailing at nine the next morning — by 
three I had got sat down to my dinner upon a 
fricasseed chicken, so incontestably in France, 
that, had I died that night of an indigestion, 
the whole world could not have suspended the 



[2] 

effects of the droits d*aubaine^ — my shirts, 
and black pair of silk breeches — portmanteau 
and all must have gone to the King of France 
— even the little picture which I have so long 
worn, and so often have told thee, Eliza, I 
would carry with me into my grave, would 
have been torn from my neck. — Ungenerous ! 
to seize upon the wreck of an unwary passen- 
ger, whom your subjects had beckon'd to their 
coast. — By Heaven! Sire, it is not well done; 
and much does it grieve me, 't is the monarch 
of a people so civihzed and courteous, and so 
renowned for sentiment and fine feelings, that 
I have to reason with — 

But I have scarce set foot in your domin- 
ions. — 



*A11 the effects of strangers (Swiss and Scots excepted) 
dying in France, are seized by virtue of this law, though the 
heir be upon the spot — the profit of these contingencies 
being farmed, there is no redress. 



[3] 



CALAIS 



WHEN I had finished my dinner, and 
drank the King of France's health, to 
satisfy my mind that I bore him no spleen, but, 
on the contrary, high honour for the humanity 
of his temper — I rose up an inch taller for the 
accommodation. 

— No — said I — the Bourbon is by no 
means a cruel race : they may be misled like 
other people ; but there is a mildness in their 
blood. As I acknowledged this, I felt a suf- 
fusion of a finer kind upon my cheek — more 
warm and friendly to man, than what Bur- 
gundy (at least of two livres a bottle, which 
was such as I had been drinking) could have 
produced. 

— Just God ! said I, kicking my portman- 
teau aside, what is there in the world's goods 
which should sharpen our spirits, and make so 
many kind-hearted brethren of us fall out so 
cruelly as we do by the way ? 

When man is at peace with man, how much 
lighter than a feather is the heaviest of metals 



in his hand ! he pulls out his purse, and holding 
it airily and uncompressed, looks round him, 
as if he sought for an object to share it with. — 
In doing this, I felt every vessel in my frame 
dilate — the arteries beat all cheerily together, 
and every power which sustained life, per- 
formed it with so little friction, that *t would 
have confounded the most physical precieuse in 
in France : with all her materialism, she could 
scarce have called me a machine. — 

I 'm confident, said I to myself, I should 
have overset her creed. 

The accession of that idea carried nature, at 
that time, as high as she could go — I was at 
peace with the world before, and this finished 
the treaty with myself. — 

Now, was I a King of France, cried I — 
what a moment for an orphan to have begg'd 
his father's portmanteau of me! 



163 



THE MONK 
CALAIS 



I HAD scarce utter'd the words, when a 
poor monk of the order of St. Francis came 
into the room to beg something for his con- 
vent. No man cares to have his virtues the 
sport of contingencies — or one man may be 
generous, as another man is puissant — sednon 
quo ad hanc — or be it as it may — for there is 
no regular reasoning upon the ebbs and flows 
of our humours ; they may depend upon the 
same causes, for aught I know, which influ- 
ence the tides themselves — 't would oft be no 
discredit to us, to suppose it was so : Tm sure 
at least for myself, that in many a case I should 
be more highly satisfied to have it said by the 
world, "I had had an affair with the moon, in 
which their was neither sin nor shame,'' than 
have it pass altogether as my own act and deed, 
wherein there was so much of both. 

— But be this as it may. The moment I cast 
my eyes upon him, I was predetermined not to 



give him a single sou ; and accordingly I put 
my purse into my pocket — button'd it up — 
set myself a little more upon my center, and 
advanced up gravely to him: there was some- 
thing, I fear, forbidding in my look: I have his 
figure this moment before my eyes, and think 
there was that in it which deserved better. 

The monk, as I judg'd from the break in his 
tonsure, a few scattered white hairs upon his 
temples being all that remained of it, might be 
about seventy — but from his eyes, and that 
sort of fire which was in them, which seem'd 
more tempered by courtesy than years, could 
be no more than sixty — truth might lie be- 
tween — he was certainly sixty-five; and the 
general air of his countenance, notwithstand- 
ing something seem'd to have been planting 
wrinkles in it before their time, agreed to the 
account. 

It was one of those heads which Guido has 
often painted — mild, pale — penetrating, free 
from all commonplace ideas of fat contented ig- 
norance looking downwards upon the earth — 
it looked forwards ; but look'd, as if it look'd at 
something beyond this world. How one of his 
order came by it, heaven above, who let it fall 
upon a monk's shoulders, best knows ; but it 



would have suited a Brahmin, and had I met it 
upon the plains of Indostan, I had reverenced it. 

The rest of his outline may be given in a few 
strokes ; one might put it into the hands of any 
one to design, for \ was neither elegant or 
otherwise, but as character and expression 
made it so : it was a thin, spare form, some- 
thing above the common size, if it lost not the 
distinction by a bend forwards in the figure — 
but it was the attitude of entreaty ; and as it 
now stands presented to my imagination, it 
gain'd more than it lost by it. 

When he had entered the room three paces, 
he stood still ; and laying his left hand upon 
his breast (a slender white staff with which he 
journeyed being in his right) — when I had got 
close up to him, he introduced himself with the 
little story of the wants of his convent, and the 
poverty of his order — and did it with so sim- 
ple a grace — and such an air of deprecation 
was there in the whole cast of his look and 
figure — I was bewitch'd not to have been 
struck with it. — 

— A better reason was, I had predetermined 
not to give him a single sou. 



[8] 



THE MONK 
CALAIS 



TIS very true, said I, replying to a cast 
upwards with his eyes, with which he 
had concluded his address — 't is very true — 
and heaven be their resource who have no 
other but the charity of the world, the stock of 
which, I fear, is no way sufficient for the many 
great claims which are hourly made upon it. 

As I pronounced the words great claims, he 
gave a shght glance with his eye downwards 
upon the sleeve of his tunic. — I felt the full 
force of the appeal. — I acknowledge it, said I 
— a coarse habit, and that but once in three 
years, with meagre diet — are no great mat- 
ters ; and the true point of pity is, as they can 
be earn'd in the world with so little industry, 
that your order should wish to procure them 
by pressing upon a fund which is the property 
of the lame, the blind, the aged, and the infirm 
— the captive who lies down counting over 
and over again the days of his afflictions, Ian- 



C93 
guishes also for his share of it ; and had you 
been of the order of mercy, instead of the order 
of St. Francis, poor as I am, continued I, 
pointing at my portmanteau, full cheerfully 
should it have been open'd to you, for the ran- 
som of the unfortunate. — The monk made me 
a bow. — But of all others, resumed I, the un- 
fortunate of our own country, surely, have the 
first rights ; and I have left thousands in dis- 
tress upon our own shore. — The monk gave 
a cordial wave with his head — as much as to 
say, No doubt, there is misery enough in every 
corner of the world, as well as within our con- 
vent. — But we distinguish, said I, laying my 
hand upon the sleeve of his tunic, in return for 
his appeal — we distinguish, my good father ! 
betwixt those who wish only to eat the bread 
of their own labour — and those who eat the 
bread of other people's, and have no other plan 
in life but to get through it in sloth and ignor- 
ance, /or the love of Qod, The poor Franciscan 
made no reply: a hectic of a moment pass'd 
across his cheek, but could not tarry — Nature 
seemed to have had done with her resentments 
in him ; he showed none — but letting his staff 
fall within his arm, he pressed both his hands 
with resignation upon his breast, and retired. 



[lo] 



THE MONK 
CALAIS 



MY heart smote me the moment he shut 
the door — Psha ! said I, with an air of 
carelessness, three several times — but it 
would not do : every ungracious syllable I had 
utter'd, crowded back into my imagination : I 
reflected, I had no right over the poor Fran- 
ciscan, but to deny him ; and that the punish- 
ment of that was enough to the disappointed, 
without the addition of unkind language : I 
considered his gray hairs — his courteous fig- 
ure seemed to reenter and gently ask what 
injury he had done me? — and why I could use 
him thus ? — I would have given twenty livres 
for an advocate. — I have behaved very ill, 
said I within myself; but I have only just set 
out upon my travels ; and shall learn better 
manners as I get along. 



c^o 



THE DESOBLIGEANT 
CALAIS 



WHEN a man is discontented with him- 
self, it has one advantage however, 
that it puts him into an excellent frame of 
mind for making a bargain. Now there being 
no traveling through France and Italy without 
a chaise — and nature generally prompting us 
to the thing we are fittest for, I walk'd out 
into the coach-yard to buy or hire something 
of that kind to my purpose : an old T)esobli- 
geant^ in the furthest corner of the court hit 
my fancy at first sight, so I instantly got into 
it, and, finding it in tolerable harmony with 
my feelings, I ordered the waiter to call Mon- 
sieur Dessein, the master of the hotel. — But 
Monsieur Dessein being gone to vespers, and 
not caring to face the Franciscan, whom I saw 
on the opposite side of the court, in conference 
with a lady just arrived at the inn — I drew 

*A chaise, so called in France, from its holding but one 
person. 



the taffeta curtain betwixt us, and being de- 
termined to write my journey, I took out my 
pen and ink, and wrote the preface to it in the 
T>esohligeant. 



[13] 



PREFACE 
IN THE DESOBLIGEANT 



IT must have been observed by many a peri- 
patetic philosopher, that nature has set up 
by her own unquestionable authority certain 
boundaries and fences to circumscribe the dis- 
content of man : she has effected her purpose 
in the quietest and easiest manner, by laying 
him under almost insuperable obligations to 
work out his ease, and to sustain his sufferings 
at home. It is there only that she has provided 
him with the most suitable objects to partake 
of his happiness, and bear a part of that bur- 
den, which, in all countries and ages, has ever 
been too heavy for one pair of shoulders. 'Tis 
true, we are endued with an imperfect power 
of spreading our happiness sometimes beyond 
her limits, but 't is so order'd, that, from the 
want of languages, connections, and depen- 
dencies, and from the difference in education, 
customs, and habits, we lie under so many im- 
pediments in communicating our sensations 



out of our own sphere, as often amount to a 
total impossibility. 

It will always follow from hence, that the 
balance of sentimental commerce is always 
against the expatriated adventurer : he must 
buy what he has little occasion for, at their own 
price — his conversation will seldom be taken 
in exchange for theirs without a large discount 
— and this, by the by, eternally driving him 
into the hands of more equitable brokers, for 
such conversation as he can find, it requires no 
great spirit of divination to guess at his party — 

This brings me to my point ; and naturally 
leads me (if the see-saw of this T>esohligeant 
will but let me get on ) into the efficient as well 
as the final causes of traveling. — 

Your idle people that leave their native 
country, and go abroad for some reason or 
reasons which may be derived from one of 
these general causes — 

Infirmity of body. 

Imbecility of mind, or 

Inevitable necessity. 
The first two include all those who travel by 
land or by water, laboring with pride, curi- 
osity, vanity, or spleen, subdivided and com- 
bined in infinitum. 



Ci5] 

The third class includes the whole army of 
peregrine martyrs ; more especially those 
travelers who set out upon their travels with 
the benefit of the clergy, either as delinquents 
traveling under the direction of governors 
recommended by the magistrate — or young 
gentlemen transported by the cruelty of par- 
ents and guardians, and traveling under the 
direction of governors recommended by Ox- 
ford, Aberdeen, and Glasgow. 

There is a fourth class, but their number is 
so small, that they would not deserve a dis- 
tinction, was it not necessary in a work of this 
nature to observe the greatest precision and 
nicety, to avoid a confusion of character. And 
these men I speak of, are such as cross the seas 
and sojourn in a land of strangers, with a view 
of saving money for various reasons and upon 
various pretenses : but as they might also save 
themselves and others a great deal of unneces- 
sary trouble by saving their money at home 
— and as their reasons for traveling are the 
least complex of any other species of emi- 
grants, I shall distinguish these gentlemen by 
the name of 

Simple Travelers. 



CIS] 

Thus the whole circle of travelers may be 
reduced to the following heads: 

Idle Travelers, 
Inquisitive Travelers, 
Lying Travelers, 
Proud Travelers, 
Vain Travelers, 
Splenetic Travelers. 

Then follow 

The Travelers of Necessity, 
The Delinquent and Felonious Traveler, 
The Unfortunate and Innocent Traveler, 
The Simple Traveler, 

And last of all (if you please) The Senti- 
mental Traveler ( meaning thereby myself) , 
who have traveled, and of which I am now sit- 
ting down to give an account — as much out 
of necessity, and the hesoin de voyager, as any 
one in the class. 

I am well aware, at the same time, as both 
my travels and observations will be altogether 
of a different cast from any of my forerunners, 
that I might have insisted upon a whole nitch 
entirely to myself — but I should break in upon 
the confines of the Vain Traveler, in wishing 



to draw attention towards me, till I have some 
better grounds for it, than the mere novelty of 
my vehicle. 

It is sufficient for my reader, if he has been 
a Traveler himself, that with study and re- 
flection hereupon he may be able to determine 
his own place and rank in the catalogue — it 
will be one step towards knowing himself, as 
it is great odds but he retains some tincture 
and resemblance of what he imbibed or car- 
ried out, to the present hour. 

The man who first transplanted the grape 
of Burgundy to the Cape of Good Hope (ob- 
serve he was a Dutchman) never dreamt of 
drinking the same wine at the Cape, that the 
same grape produced upon the French moun- 
tains — he was too phlegmatic for that — but 
undoubtedly he expected to drink some sort 
of vinous liquor; but whether good, bad, or 
indifferent — he knew enough of this world to 
know, that it did not depend upon his choice, 
but that what is generally called chance was to 
decide his success : however, he hoped for the 
best: and in these hopes, by an intemperate 
confidence in the fortitude of his head, and the 
depth of his discretion, mjyw/i^^r might possibly 
overset both in his new vineyard, and by dis- 



covering his nakedness, become a laughing- 
stock to his people. 

Even so it fares with the poor Traveler, 
sailing and posting through the politer king- 
doms of the globe, in pursuit of knowledge 
and improvements. 

Knowledge and improvements are to be got 
by sailing and posting for that purpose ; but 
whether useful knowledge and real improve- 
ments is all a lottery — and even where the 
adventurer is successful, the acquired stock 
must be used with caution and sobriety, to 
turn to any profit — but as the chances run 
prodigiously the other way, both as to the 
acquisition and application, I am of opinion, 
that a man would act as wisely, if he could pre- 
vail upon himself to live contented without 
foreign knowledge or foreign improvements 
especially if he lives in a country that has no 
absolute want of either — and indeed, much 
grief of heart has it oft and many a time cost 
me, when I have observed how many a foul 
step the Inquisitive Traveler has measured to 
see sights and look into discoveries, all which, 
as Sancho Panca said to Don Quixote, they 
might have seen dry-shod at home. It is an age 
so full of hght, that there is scarce a country or 



C^93 

corner of Europe, whose beams are not crossed 
and interchanged with others. — Knowledge in 
most of its branches, and in most affairs, is Uke 
music in an Itahan street, whereof those may 
partake who pay nothing. — But there is no 
nation under heaven — and God is my record 
(before whose tribunal I must one day come 
and give an account of this work) — that I do 
not speak it vauntingly — but there is no nation 
under heaven abounding with more variety of 
learning — where the sciences may be more 
fitly woo'd, or more surely won, than here — 
where art is encouraged, and will so soon rise 
high — where Nature (take her altogether) has 
so little to answer for — and, to close all, where 
there is more wit and variety of character to 
feed the mind with. — Where then, my dear 
countrymen, are you going — 

— We are only looking at this chaise, said 
they. — Your most obedient servant, said I, 
skipping out of it, and pulling off' my hat. — 
We were wondering, said one of them, who, 
I found, was an Inquisitive Traveler, — what 
coald occasion its motion. — 'T was the agita- 
tion, said I coolly, of writing a preface. — I 
never heard, said the other, who was a Simple 
Traveler, of a preface wrote in a Desobligeant. 



— It would have been better, said I, in a Vis- 
a-Vis, 

As an Englishman does not travel to see Eng- 
lishmen, I retired to my room. 



c^o 



CALAIS 



I PERCEIVED that something darkened 
the passage more than myself, as I stepped 
along it to my room ; it was effectually Mon- 
sieur Dessein, the master of the hotel, who 
had just returned from vespers, and, with his 
hat under his arm, was most complaisantly 
following me, to put me in mind of my wants. 
I had wrote myself pretty well out of conceit 
with the *J)esohligeant; and Monsieur Dessein 
speaking of it with a shrug, as if it would no 
way suit me, it immediately struck my fancy 
that it belonged to some Innocent Traveler, 
who, on his return home, had left it to Mon- 
sieur Dessein's honour to make the most of. 
Four months had elapsed since it had finished 
its career of Europe in the corner of Monsieur 
Dessein's coach-yard ; and having sallied out 
from thence but a vampt-up business at the 
first, though it had been twice taken to pieces 
on Mount Sennis, it had not profited much by 
its adventures — but by none so little as the 
standing so many months unpitied in the cor- 



ner of Monsieur Dessein's coach-yard. Much 
indeed was not to be said for it — but some- 
thing might — and when a few words will 
rescue misery out of her distress, I hate the 
man who can be a churl of them. 

— Now was I the master of this hotel, said 
I, laying the point of my forefinger on Mon- 
sieur Dessein's breast, I would inevitably make 
a point of getting rid of this unfortunate Deso- 
hligeant — it stands swinging reproaches at 
you every time you pass by it. — 

Mon Dieu ! said Monsieur Dessein — I have 
no interest — Except the interest, said I, which 
men of a certain turn of mind take. Monsieur 
Dessein, in their own sensations. — I'm per- 
suaded, to a man who feels for others as well 
as for himself, every rainy night, disguise it as 
you will, must cast a damp upon your spirits. 
— You suffer. Monsieur Dessein, as much as 
the machine — 

I have always observed, when there is as 
much sour as sweet in a compliment, that an 
Englishman is eternally at a loss within him- 
self, whether to take it or let it alone : a French- 
man never is : Monsieur Dessein made me a 
bow. 

Cest hien vrai, said he — But in this case I 



should only exchange one disquietude for an- 
other, and with loss ; figure to yourself, my dear 
sir, that in giving you a chaise which would fall 
to pieces before you had got half-way to Paris 
— figure to yourself how much I should suffer, 
in giving an ill impression of myself to a man 
of honour, and lying at the mercy, as I must 
do, d'un homme d'esprit. 

The dose was made up exactly after my 
own prescription; so I could not help taking it 
— and returning Monsieur Dessein his bow, 
without more casuistry we walked together 
towards his Remise, to take a view of his 
magazine of chaises. 



c;^43 



IN THE STREET 
CALAIS 



IT must needs be a hostile kind of a world, 
when the buyer (if it be but of a sorry post- 
chaise) cannot go forth with the seller thereof 
into the street, to terminate the difference be- 
twixt them, but he instantly falls into the same 
frame of mind, and views his conventionist 
with the same sort of eye, as if he was going 
along with him to Hyde Park Corner to fight 
a duel. For my own part, being but a poor 
swordsman, and no way a match for Monsieur 
Dessein, I felt the rotation of all the move- 
ments within me, to which the situation is inci- 
dent. — I looked at Monsieur Dessein through 
and through — ey'd him as he walked along in 
profile — then, en face — thought he looked like 
a Jew — then a Turk — disliked his wig — 
curs'd him by my gods — wish'd him at the 
devil — 

— And is all this to be lighted up in the heart 
for a beggarly account of three or four louis 



d'ors, which is the most I can be overreached 
in? — Base passion! said I, turning myself 
about, as a man naturally does upon a sudden 
reverse of sentiment — base ungentle passion ! 
thy hand is against every man, and every 
man's hand against thee — Heaven forbid! said 
she, raising her hand up to her forehead, for I 
had turned full in front upon the lady whom I 
had seen in conference with the monk — she 
had followed us unperceived. — Heaven for- 
bid, indeed ! said I, offering her my own — she 
had a black pair of silk gloves, open only at the 
thumb and two forefingers, so accepted it with- 
out reserve — and I led her up to the door of 
the Remise. 

Monsieur Dessein had diahled the key above 
fifty times, before he found out he had come 
with a wrong one in his hand : we were as im- 
patient as himself to have it open'd ; and so 
attentive to the obstacle, that I continued hold- 
ing her hand almost without knowing it : so 
that Monsieur Dessein left us together, with 
her hand in mine, and with our faces turned 
towards the door of the Remise, and said he 
would be back in five minutes. 

Now a colloquy of five minutes, in such a 
situation, is worth one of as many ages, with 



[26:1 

your faces turned towards the street. In the 
latter case, 't is drawn from the objects and oc- 
currences without — when your eyes are fixed 
upon a dead blank — you draw purely from 
yourselves. A silence of a single moment upon 
Monsieur Dessein's leaving us, had been fatal 
to the situation — she had infallibly turned 
about — so I begun the conversation instantly. 
But what were the temptations (as I write 
not to apologize for the weaknesses of my heart 
in this tour, — but to give an account of them ) 
shall be described with the same simplicity 
with which I felt them. 



1^1^ 



THE REMISE DOOR 
CALAIS 



WHEN I told the reader that I did not 
care to get out of the Desobligeant, be- 
cause I saw the monk in close conference with 
a lady just arrived at the inn — I told him the 
truth ; but I did not tell him the whole truth ; 
for I was full as much restrained by the ap- 
pearance and figure of the lady he was talking 
to. Suspicion crossed my brain, and said, he 
was telling her what had passed ; something 
jarred upon it within me. — I wished him at his 
convent. 

When the heart flies out before the under- 
standing, it saves the judgment a world of 
pains. — I was certain she was of a better order 
of beings — however, I thought no more of 
her, but went on and wrote my preface. 

The impression returned upon my encoun- 
ter with her in the street; a guarded frankness 
with which she gave me her hand, showed, I 
thought, her good education and her good 



sense; and as I led her on, I felt a pleasurable 
ductility about her, which spread a calmness 
over all my spirits — 

— Good God ! how a man might lead such a 
creature as this round the world with him ! — 

I had not yet seen her face — 't was not ma- 
terial; for the drawing was instantly set about, 
and long before we had got to the door of the 
Remise, Fancy had finished the whole head, and 
pleased herself as much with its fitting her 
goddess, as if she had dived into the Tiber for 
it. — But thou art a seduced, and a seducing 
slut; and albeit thou cheatest us seven times a 
day with thy pictures and images, yet with so 
many charms dost thou do it, and thou deckest 
out thy pictures in the shapes of so many 
angels of light,'tis a shame to break with thee. 

When we had got to the door of the Remise, 
she withdrew her hand from across her fore- 
head, and let me see the original — it was a 
face of about six and twenty — of a clear trans- 
parent brown, simply set off without rouge or 
powder — it was not critically handsome, but 
there was that in it, which, in the frame of 
mind I was in, attached me much more to it — 
it was interesting ; I fancied it wore the char- 
acters of a widow'd look, and in that state of 



its declension, which had passed the two first 
paroxysms of sorrow, and was quietly begin- 
ning to reconcile itself to its loss — but a thou- 
sand other distresses might have traced the 
same lines ; I wished to know what they had 
been — and was ready to inquire (had the same 
bon ton of conversation permitted, as in the 
days of Esdras ) — ^'What aileth thee ? and why 
art thou disquieted? and why is thy understand- 
ing troubled?" — In a word, I felt benevolence 
for her ; and resolv'd some way or other to 
throw in my mite of courtesy — if not of ser- 
vice. 

Such were my temptations — and in this dis- 
position to give way to them, was I left alone 
with the lady with her hand in mine, and with 
our faces both turned closer to the door of the 
Remise than what was absolutely necessary. 



[30] 



THE REMISE DOOR 
CALAIS 



THIS certainly, fair lady ! said I, raising 
her hand up a little lightly as I began, 
must be one of Fortune's whimsical doings : to 
take two utter strangers by their hands — of 
different sexes, and perhaps from different cor- 
ners of the globe, and in one moment place 
them together in such a cordial situation as 
Friendship herself could scarce have achieved 
for them, had she projected it for a month. — 

— And your reflection upon it, shows how 
much. Monsieur, she has embarrassed you by 
the adventure. — 

When the situation is what we would wish, 
nothing is so ill-timed as to hint at the circum- 
stances which make it so. You thank Fortune, 
continued she — you had reason — the heart 
knew it, and was satisfied ; and who but an 
English philosopher would have sent notices 
of it to the brain to reverse the judgment? 

In saying this she disengaged her hand with 



a look which I thought a sufficient commen- 
tary upon the text. 

It is a miserable picture which I am going 
to give of the weakness of my heart, by own- 
ing that it suffered a pain, which worthier oc- 
casions could not have inflicted. — I was mor- 
tified with the loss of her hand, and the manner 
in which I had lost it carried neither oil nor 
wine to the wound : I never felt the pain of a 
sheepish inferiority so miserably in all my life. 

The triumphs of a true feminine heart are 
short upon these discomfitures. In a very few 
seconds she laid her hand upon the cuff of my 
coat, in order to finish her reply; so some way 
or other, God knows how, I regained my situ- 
ation. 

— She had nothing to add. 

I forthwith began to model a different con- 
versation for the lady, thinking from the spirit 
as well as moral of this, that I had been mis- 
taken in her character ; but upon turning her 
face towards me, the spirit which had animated 
the reply was fled — the muscles relaxed, and 
I beheld the same unprotected look of distress 
which first won me to her interest. — Melan- 
choly ! to see such sprightliness the prey of 
sorrow. — I pitied her from my soul ; and 



though it may seem ridiculous enough to a 
torpid heart, — I could have taken her into my 
arms, and cherished her, though it was in the 
open street, without blushing. 

The pulsations of the arteries along my 
fingers pressing across hers, told her what was 
passing within me: she looked down — a silence 
of some moments followed. 

I fear, in this interval, I must have made 
some slight efforts towards a closer compres- 
sion of her hand, from a subtle sensation I felt 
in the palm of my ov^^ — not as if she was 
going to withdraw hers — but as if she thought 
about it — and I had infaUibly lost it a second 
time, had not instinct more than reason di- 
rected me to the last resource in these dangers 
— to hold it loosely and in a manner as if I 
was every moment going to release it of my- 
self ; so she let it continue till Monsieur Des- 
sein returned with the key ; and in the mean 
time I set myself to consider how I should un- 
do the ill impressions which the poor monk's 
story, in case he had told it her, must have 
planted in her breast against me. 



THE SNUFF-BOX 
CALAIS 



THE good old monk was within six paces 
of us, as the idea of him cross'd my mind ; 
and was advancing towards us a httle out of 
the line, as if uncertain whether he should 
break in upon us or no. — He stopp'd, how- 
ever, as soon as he came up to us, with a world 
of frankness : and having a horn snuff-box in 
his hand, he presented it open to me. — You 
shall taste mine — said I, pulling out my box 
(which was a small tortoise one) and putting it 
into his hand. — 'Tis most excellent, said the 
monk. Then do me the favour,! replied, to ac- 
cept of the box and all, and when you take a 
pinch out of it, sometimes recollect it was the 
peace-offering of a man who once used you 
unkindly, but not from his heart. 

The poor monk blush'd as red as scarlet. 
(*JMon T)ieu ! said he, pressing his hands to- 
gether — you never used me unkindly. — I 
should think, said the lady, he is not likely. I 



[34 11 

blush'd in my turn ; but from what movements 
I leave the few who feel to analyze. — Excuse 
me, Madame, replied I — I treated him most 
unkindly, and from no provocations. — 'Tis 
impossible, said the lady. — My God ! cried the 
monk, with a warmth of asseveration which 
seem'd not to belong to him — the fault was in 
me, and in the indiscretion of my zeal. — The 
lady opposed it, and I joined with her in main- 
taining it was impossible, that a spirit so regu- 
lated as his, could give offence to any. 

I knew not that contention could be ren- 
dered so sweet and pleasurable a thing to the 
nerves as I then felt it. — We remained silent 
without any sensation of that foolish pain 
which takes place, when in such a circle you 
look for ten minutes in one another's faces 
without saying a word. Whilst this lasted, the 
monk rubb'd his horn box upon the sleeve of 
his tunic; and as soon as it had acquired a little 
air of brightness by the friction — he made a 
low bow, and said, 't was too late to say whe- 
ther it was the weakness or goodness of our 
tempers which had involved us in this contest. 
— But be it as it would — he begg'd we might 
exchange boxes. — In sayingthis,he presented 
his to me with one hand, as he took mine from 



me in the other ; and having kiss'd it — with a 
stream of good nature in his eyes he put it into 
his bosom — and took his leave. 

I guard this box, as I would the instrumental 
parts of my religion, to help my mind on to 
something better: in truth, I seldom go abroad 
without it : and oft and many a time have I 
caird up by it the courteous spirit of its owner 
to regulate my own, in the justlings of the 
world; they had found full employment for his, 
as I learnt from his story, till about the forty- 
fifth year of his age, when upon some military 
services ill requited, and meeting at the same 
time with a disappointment in the tenderest of 
passions, he abandoned the sword and the sex 
together, and took sanctuary, not so much in 
his convent as in himself. 

I feel a damp upon my spirits, as I am going 
to add, that in my last return through Calais, 
upon inquiring after Father Lorenzo, I heard 
he had been dead near three months, and was 
buried, not in his convent, but, according to his 
desire, in a little cemetery belonging to it, 
about two leagues off: I had a strong desire to 
see where they had laid him — when upon 
pulling out his little horn box, as I sat by his 
grave, and plucking up a nettle or two at the 



136-2 
head of it, which had no business to grow there, 
they all struck together so forcibly upon my 
affections, that I burst into a flood of tears — 
but I am as weak as a woman ; and I beg the 
world not to smile, but pity me. 



C373 



THE REMISE DOOR 
CALAIS 



I HAD never quitted the lady's hand all this 
time; and had held it so long, that it would 
have been indecent to have let it go, without 
first pressing it to my lips: the blood and spir- 
its, which had suffered a revulsion from her, 
crowded back to her, as I did it. 

Now the two travelers, who had spoke to 
me in the coach-yard, happening at that crisis 
to be passing by, and observing our communi- 
cations, naturally took it into their heads that 
we must be man and wife, at least; so stopping 
as soon as they came up to the door of the Re- 
mise, the one of them, who was the Inquisitive 
Traveler, ask'd us, if we set out for Paris the 
next morning? — I could only answer for my- 
self, I said; and the lady added, she was for 
Amiens. — We dined there yesterday, said the 
Simple Traveler. — You go directly through 
the town, added the other, in your road to Paris. 
I was going to return a thousand thanks for the 



intelligence, that c^miens was in the road to 
^aris; but upon pulling out my poor monk's 
little horn box to take a pinch of snuff — I 
made them a quiet bow, and wishing them a 
good passage to Dover — they left us alone. — 

— Now where would be the harm, said I 
to myself, if I was to beg of this distressed lady 
to accept of half of my chaise ? — and what 
mighty mischief could ensue ? 

Every dirty passion, and bad propensity in 
my nature, took the alarm, as I stated the 
proposition. — It will oblige you to have a third 
horse, said Avarice, which will put twenty 
livres out of your pocket. — You know not who 
she is, said Caution — or what scrapes the 
affair may draw you into, whispered Cowar- 
dice. — 

Depend upon it, Yorick! said Discretion, 
't will be said you went off with a mistress, and 
came by assignation to Calais for that pur- 
pose. — 

— You can never after, cried Hypocrisy 
aloud, show your face in the world — or rise, 
quoth Meanness, in the church — or be any- 
thing in it, said Pride, but a lousy prebendary. 

— But 'tis a civil thing, said I — and as I 
generally act from the first impulse, and there- 



C39: 

fore seldom listen to these cabals, which serve 
no purpose that I know of, but to encompass 
the heart with adamant — I turn'd instantly 
about to the lady. — 

— But she had glided offunperceived, as the 
cause was pleading, and had made ten or a 
dozen paces down the street, by the time I had 
made the determination ; so I set off after her 
with a long stride, to make her the proposal 
with the best address I was master of; but ob- 
serving she walk'd with her cheek half resting 
upon the palm of her hand — with the slow, 
short-measur'd step of thoughtfulness, and 
with her eyes, as she went step by step, fix'd 
upon the ground, it struck me, she was trying 
the same cause herself. — God help her! said 
I, she has some mother-in-law, or tartufish 
aunt, or nonsensical old woman, to consult 
upon the occasion, as well as myself: so not 
caring to interrupt the process, and deeming it 
more gallant to take her at discretion than by 
surprise, I faced about, and took a short turn 
or tw^o before the door of the Remise, whilst 
she walked musing on one side. 



[40] 



IN THE STREET 
CALAIS 



HAVING, on first sight of the lady, set- 
tled the affair in my fancy, <'that she 
was of the better order of beings'' — and then 
laid it down as a second axiom, as indisputable 
as the first, that she was a widow, and wore a 
character of distress — I went no further ; I got 
ground enough for the situation which pleased 
me — and had she remained close beside my 
elbow till midnight, I should have held true to 
my system, and considered her only under that 
general idea. 

She had scarce got twenty paces distant 
from me, ere something within me called out 
for a more particular inquiry — it brought on 
the idea of a further separation — I might pos- 
sibly never see her more — the heart is for 
saving what it can; and I wanted the traces 
thro' which my wishes might find the way to 
her, in case I should never rejoin her myself: 



C40 
in a word, I wish'd to know her name — her 
family's — her condition; and as I knew the 
place to which she was going, I wanted to know 
from whence she came : but there was no com- 
ing at all this intelligence : a hundred little deli- 
cacies stood in the way. I formed a score of 
different plans — There was no such thing as a 
man's asking her directly — the thing was im- 
possible. 

A little French dehonnaire captain, who came 
dancing down the street, showed me, it was 
the easiest thing in the world ; for popping in 
betwixt us, just as the lady was returning back 
to the door of the Remise, he introduced him- 
self to my acquaintance, and before he had 
well got announced, begg'd I would do him 
the honour to present him to the lady — I had 
not been presented myself — so turning about 
to her, he did it just as well by asking her, if 
she had come from Paris ? — No, she was 
going that route, she said. — Vous netes pas de 
Londres? — She was not, she replied. — Then 
Madame must have come thro' Flanders. — 
dAppcLremment vous etes Flamande^ said the 
French captain. — The lady answered, she was. 
— Peutetre de Lisle? added he. — She said, she 
was not of Lisle. — Nor Arras? — Nor Cam- 



bray ? — nor Ghent? — Nor Brussels ? She an- 
swered, she was of Brussels. 

He had had the honour, he said, to be at the 
bombardment of it last war — that it was finely 
situated, pour cela — and full of noblesse when 
the Imperialists were driven out by the French 
(the lady made a slight curtsy) — so giving 
her an account of the affair, and of the share he 
had had in it — he begg'd the honour to know 
her name — so made his bow. 

— Et (^yidadame a son c^yidari ? — said he, 
looking back when he had made two steps — 
and without staying for an answer — danced 
down the street. 

Had I served seven years' apprenticeship to 
good breeding, I could not have done as much. 



C43:] 



THE REMISE 
CALAIS 



AS the little French captain left us, Mon- 
sieur Dessein came up with the key of 
the Remise in his hand, and forthwith let us 
into his magazine of chaises. 

The first object which caught my eye, as 
Monsieur Dessein open'd the door of the Re- 
mise, was another old tatter'd Desohligeant, 
and notwithstanding it was the exact picture 
of that which had hit my fancy so much in the 
coach-yard but an hour before — the very sight 
of it stirr'd up a disagreeable sensation within 
me now ; and I thought 't was a churhsh beast 
into whose heart the idea could first enter, to 
construct such a machine; nor had I much 
more charity for the man who could think of 
using it. 

I observed the lady was as little taken with 
it as myself: so Monsieur Dessein led us on to 
a couple of chaises which stood abreast, telling 
us, as he recommended them, that they had 



[44:! 

been purchased by my Lord A. and B. to go 
the grand tour, but had gone no further than 
Paris, so were in all respects as good as new. 
— They were too good — so I passed on to a 
third, which stood behind, and forthwith began 
to chaffer for the price. — But 't will scarce hold 
two, said I, opening the door and getting in. 
— Have the goodness, Madam, said Monsieur 
Dessein, offering his arm, to step in. — The 
lady hesitated half a second, and stepped in ; 
and the waiter that moment beckoning to 
speak to Monsieur Dessein, he shut the door 
of the chaise upon us, and left us. 



C45] 

THE REMISE DOOR 
CALAIS 



C'EST hien comique, 'tis very droll, said the 
lady smiling, from the reflection that this 
was the second time we had been left together 
by a parcel of nonsensical contingencies — c'est 
hien comique, said she. — 

— There wants nothing, said I, to make it 
so, but the comic use which the gallantry of a 
Frenchman would put it to — to make love the 
first moment, and an offer of his person the 
second. 

'T is their/or^, replied the lady. 

It is supposed so at least — and how it has 
come to pass, continued I, I know not: but they 
have certainly got the credit of understanding 
more of love, and making it better than any 
other nation upon earth ; but for my own part 
I think them errant bunglers, and in truth the 
worst set of marksmen that ever tried Cupid's 
patience. 

— To think of making love by sentiments ! 



C46] 

I should as soon think of making a genteel 
suit of clothes out of remnants: — and to do it 
— pop — at first sight by declaration — is sub- 
mitting the offer and themselves with it, to be 
sifted with all their pours and contres, by an 
unheated mind. 

The lady attended as if she expected I should 
goon. 

Consider then, Madam, continued I, laying 
my hand upon hers — 

That grave people hate Love for the name's 
sake — 

That selfish people hate it for their own — 

Hypocrites for heaven's — 

And that all of us, both old and young, being 
ten times worse frighten'd than hurt by the 
very report — What a want of knowledge in 
this branch of commerce a man betrays, who 
ever lets the word come out of his lips, till an 
hour or two at least after the time that his 
silence upon it becomes tormenting. A course 
of small, quiet attentions, not so pointed as to 
alarm — nor so vague as to be misunderstood 
— with now and then a look of kindness, and 
little or nothing said upon it — leaves Nature 
for your mistress, and she fashions it to her 
mind — 



[47:1 

Then I solemnly declare, said the lady, 
blushing — you have been making love to me 
all this while. 



[48] 



THE REMISE 
CALAIS 



MONSIEUR Dessein came back to let us 
out of the chaise, and acquaint the lady, 
the Count de L***, her brother, was just ar- 
rived at the hotel. Though I had infinite good 
will for the lady, I cannot say, that I rejoiced 
in my heart at the event — and could not help 
telling her so — for it is fatal to a proposal. 
Madam, said I, that I was going to make you. — 

You need not tell me what the proposal 
was, said she, laying her hand upon both mine, 
as she interrupted me. — A man, my good Sir, 
has seldom an offer of kindness to make to a 
woman, but she has a presentiment of it some 
moments before. — 

Nature arms her with it, said I, for imme- 
diate preservation. — But I think, said she, 
looking in my face, I had no evil to apprehend 
— and to deal frankly with you, had deter- 
mined to accept it. — If I had — (she stopped 
a moment) — I believe your good will would 



[49] 

have drawn a story from me, which would have 
made pity the only dangerous thing in the 
journey. 

In saying this, she suffered me to kiss her 
hand twice, and with a look of sensibility mixed 
with a concern, she got out of the chaise — and 
bid adieu. 



[5o] 



IN THE STREET 
CALAIS 



I NEVER finished a twelve-guinea bargain 
so expeditiously in my life : my time seemed 
heavy upon the loss of the lady, and knowing 
every moment of it would be as two, till I put 
myself into motion — I ordered post-horses 
directly, and walked towards the hotel. 

Lord ! said I, hearing the town clock strike 
four, and recollecting that I had been little 
more than a single hour in Calais — 

— What a large volume of adventures may 
be grasped within this little span of life, by him 
who interests his heart in everything, and who, 
having eyes to see what time and chance are 
perpetually holding out to him as he journey- 
eth on his way, misses nothing he can fairly 
lay his hands on. — 

— If this won't turn out something — an- 
other will — no matter — 't is an assay upon 
human nature — I get my labour for my pains 
— 'tis enough — the pleasure of the experi- 



C50 
ment has kept my senses and the best part of 
my blood awake, and laid the gross to sleep. 

I pity the man who can travel from Dan to 
Beersheha, and cry/Tis all barren — and so it 
is ; and so is all the world to him, who will not 
cultivate the fruits it offers. I declare, said I, 
clapping my hands cheerily together, that was 
I in a desert, I would find out wherewith in it 
to call forth my affections. — If I could not do 
better, I would fasten them upon some sweet 
myrtle, or seek some melancholy cypress to 
connect myself to — I would court their shade, 
and greet them kindly for their protection — 
I would cut my name upon them, and swear 
they were the loveliest trees throughout the 
desert : if their leaves withered, I would teach 
myself to mourn, and when they rejoiced, I 
would rejoice along with them. 

The learned Smelfungus traveled from 
Boulogne to Paris — from Paris to Rome — 
and so on — but he set out with the spleen and 
jaundice, and every object he pass'd by was dis- 
coloured or distorted. — He wrote an account 
of them, but 't was nothing but the account of 
his miserable feelings. 

I met Smelfungus in the grand portico of 
the Pantheon — he was just coming out of it. 



— 'Tis nothing but a huge cock-pit,^ said he. — 
I wish you had said nothing worse of the Venus 
of Medicis, rephed I — for in passing through 
Florence, I had heard he had fallen foul upon 
the goddess, and used her worse than a com- 
mon strumpet, without the least provocation 
in nature. 

I popp'd upon Smelfungus again at Turin, 
in his return home ; and a sad tale of sorrowful 
adventures had he to tell, ''wherein he spoke 
of moving accidents by flood and field, and of 
the cannibals which each other eat : the An- 
thropophagi '' — he had been flay'd alive, and 
bedevil'd, and used worse than St. Bartholo- 
mew, at every stage he had come at. — 

— ril tell it, cried Smelfungus, to the world. 
You had better tell it, said I, to your physician. 

Mundungus, with an immense fortune, 
made the whole tour ; going on from Rome to 
Naples — from Naples to Venice — from Ven- 
ice to Vienna — to Dresden, to Berlin, without 
one generous connection or pleasurable anec- 
dote to tell of; but he had travePd straight on, 
looking neither to his right hand or his left, 
lest Love or Pity should seduce him out of his 
road. 

*Vicle S 's Travels. 



C53:3 

Peace be to them ! if it is to be found ; but 
heaven itself, was it possible to get there with 
such tempers, would want objects to give it. — 
Every gentle spirit would come flying upon 
the wings of Love to hail their arrival. — 
Nothing would the souls of Smelfungus and 
Mundungus hear of, but fresh anthems of joy, 
fresh raptures of love, and fresh congratula- 
tions of their common felicity. — I heartily pity 
them : they have brought up no faculties for 
this work ; and was the happiest mansion in 
heaven to be alloted to Smelfungus and Mun- 
dungus, they would be so far from being 
happy, that the souls of Smelfungus and Mun- 
dungus would do penance there to all eternity. 



[54;] 



MONTRIUL 



I HAD once lost my portmanteau from be- 
hind my chaise, and twice got out in the 
rain, and one of the times up to the knees in 
dirt, to help the postilion to tie it on, without 
being able to find out what was wanting. — 
Nor was it till I got to Montriul, upon the land- 
lord's asking me if I wanted not a servant, that 
it occurred to me that that was the very thing. 
A servant ! That I do most sadly, quoth I. 

— Because, Monsieur, said the landlord, there 
is a clever young fellow, who would be very 
proud of the honour to serve an Englishman. — 
But why an English one, more than any other? 

— They are so generous, said the landlord. 

— I '11 be shot if this is not a livre out of my 
pocket, quoth I to myself, this very night. — 
But they have wherewithal to be so. Monsieur, 
added he. — Set down one livre more for that, 
quoth I. — It was but last night, said the land- 
lord, qu'un my Lord Anglois pre sentoit un ecu a 
lajille de chamhre. — Tant pis, pour (*yi4ademoi- 
selle Janatone^ said I. 



1553 

Now Janatone being the landlord's daugh- 
ter, and the landlord supposing I was young 
in French, took the liberty to inform me, I 
should not have said tantpis — but, tantmieux. 
Tant mieux, toujours,<^JMonsieur, said he, when 
there is anything to be got — tant pis, when 
there is nothing. It comes to the same thing, 
said I. Tardonnez mot, said the landlord. 

I cannot take a fitter opportunity to observe, 
once for all, that tantpis and tant mieux being 
two of the great hinges in French conversa- 
tion, a stranger would do well to set himself 
right in the use of them, before he gets to 
Paris. 

A prompt French Marquis at our ambas- 
sador's table demanded of Mr. H , if he 

was H the poet? No, said H mildly. 

— Tantpis, replied the Marquis. 

It is H the historian, said another. — 

Tant mieux, said the Marquis. And Mr. 

H , who is a man of an excellent heart, 

returned thanks for both. 

When the landlord had set me right in this 
matter, he called in La Fleur, which was the 
name of the young man he had spoke of — 
saying only first. That as for his talents, he 
would presume to say nothing — Monsieur 



was the best judge what would suit him ; but 
for the fidehty of La Fleur, he would stand re- 
sponsible in all that he was worth. 

The landlord delivered this in a manner 
which instantly set my mind to the business I 
was upon — and La Fleur, who stood waiting 
without, in that breathless expectation which 
every son of Nature of us have felt in our 
turns, came in. 



C^v] 



MONTRIUL 



I AM apt to be taken with all kinds of peo- 
ple at first sight ; but never more so, than 
when a poor devil comes to offer his service to 
so poor a devil as myself; and as I know this 
weakness, I always suffer my judgment to 
draw back something on that very account — 
and this more or less, according to the mood I 
am in, and the case — and I may add the gen- 
der too of the person I am to govern. 

When La Fleur entered the room, after 
every discount I could make for my soul, the 
genuine look and air of the fellow determined 
the matter at once in his favour; so I hired him 
first — and then began to inquire what he could 
do: but I shall find out his talents, quoth I, as 
I want them — besides, a Frenchman can do 
everything. 

Now poor La Fleur could do nothing in the 
world but beat a drum, and play a march or 
two upon the fife. I was determined to make his 
talents do: and can't say my weakness was ever 
so insulted by my wisdom, as in the attempt. 



La Fleur had set out early in life, as gal- 
lantly as most Frenchmen do, with serving for 
a few years : at the end of which, having satis- 
fied the sentiment, and found moreover, that 
the honour of beating a drum was likely to be 
its own reward, as it open'd no further track 
of glory to him — he retired a ses terres, and 
lived comme il plaisoit a T)ieu — that is to say, 
upon nothing. 

— And so, quoth fVisdom, you have hired a 
drummer to attend you in this tour of yours 
thro' France and Italy ! Psha ! said I, and do 
not one half of our gentry go with a humdrum 
compagnon du voyage the same round, and have 
the piper and the devil and all to pay besides ? 
When man can extricate himself with an equi- 
voque in such an unequal match — he is not 
ill off. — But you can do something else. La 
Fleur? said L — O qu'oui! — he could make 
spatterdashes, and play a little upon the fiddle. 
Bravo! said Wisdom. — Why I play a bass 
myself, said I — we shall do very well. — You 
can shave, and dress a wig a little. La Fleur? 
— He had all the dispositions in the world. — 
It is enough for heaven ! said I, interrupting 
him — and ought to be enough for me. — So 
supper coming in, and having a frisky English 



[1593 
spaniel on one side of my chair, and a French 
valet, with as much hilarity in his countenance 
as ever nature painted in one, on the other — 
I was satisfied to my heart's content with my 
empire ; and if monarchs knew what they 
would be at, they might be as satisfied as I 
was. 



C^o] 



MONTRIUL 



AS La Fleur went the whole tour of France 
Jl\. and Italy with me, and will be often upon 
the stage, I must interest the reader a little 
further in his behalf, by saying, that I had 
never less reason to repent of the impulses 
which generally do determine me, than in re- 
gard to this fellow — he was a faithful, affec- 
tionate, simple soul as ever trudged after the 
heels of a philosopher ; and notwithstanding 
his talents of drum-beating and spatterdash- 
making, which, tho' very good in themselves, 
happened to be of no great service to me, yet 
was I hourly recompensed by the festivity of 
his temper — it supplied all defects — I had a 
constant resource in his looks, in all difficulties 
and distresses of my own — I was goingtohave 
added, of his too; but La Fleur was out of the 
reach of everything ; for whether it was hun- 
ger or thirst, or cold or nakedness, or watch- 
ings, or whatever stripes of ill luck La Fleur 
met with in our journeyings, there was no in- 
dex in his physiognomy to point them out by 



C6i3 

— he was eternally the same ; so that if I am 
a piece of a philosopher, which Satan now and 
then puts into my head I am — it always mor- 
tifies the pride of the conceit, by reflecting 
how much I owe to the complexional philos- 
ophy of this poor fellow, for shaming me into 
one of a better kind. With all this. La Fleur 
had a small cast of the coxcomb — but he 
seemed at first sight to be more a coxcomb of 
nature than of art; and before I had been three 
days in Paris with him — he seemed to be no 
coxcomb at all. 



c^o 



MONTRIUL 



THE next morning. La Fleur entering 
upon his employment, I delivered to 
him the key of my portmanteau, with an in- 
ventory of my half a dozen shirts and silk pair 
of breeches ; and bid him fasten all upon the 
chaise — get the horses put to — and desire the 
landlord to come in with his bill. 

C'est un garcon de bonne fortune, said the 
landlord, pointing through the window to half 
a dozen wenches who had got round about La 
Fleur, and were most kindly taking their leave 
of him, as the postilion was leading out the 
horses. La Fleur kissed all their hands round 
and round again, and thrice he wiped his eyes, 
and thrice he promised he would bring them 
all pardons from Rome. 

The young fellow, said the landlord, is be- 
loved by all the town, and there is scarce a 
corner in Montriul, where the want of him 
will not be felt : he has but one misfortune in 
the world, continued he, "He is always in 
love.'' — I am heartily glad of it, said I — 'twill 



save me the trouble every night of putting my 
breeches under my head. In saying this, I was 
making not so much La Fleur's eloge, as my 
own, having been in love, with one princess or 
other, almost all my life, and I hope I shall go 
on so till I die, being firmly persuaded, that if 
ever I do a mean action, it must be in some in- 
terval betwixt one passion and another: whilst 
this interregnum lasts, I always perceive my 
heart locked up — I can scarce find in it to give 
Misery a sixpence ; and therefore I always get 
out of it as fast as I can, and the moment I am 
rekindled, I am all generosity and good will 
again ; and would do anything in the world, 
either for or with any one, if they will but sat- 
isfy me there is no sin in it. 

— But in saying this — surely I am com- 
mending the passion — not myself. 



[64] 



A FRAGMENT 



THE town of Abdera, notwithstanding 
Democritus lived there, trying all the 
powers of irony and laughter to reclaim it, 
was the vilest and most profligate town in all 
Thrace. What for poisons, conspiracies, and 
assassinations — libels, pasquinades, and tu- 
mults, there was no going there by day — -'twas 
worse by night. 

Now, when things were at the worst, it came 
to pass, that the Andromeda of Euripides being 
represented at Abdera, the whole orchestra 
was delighted with it : but of all the passages 
which delighted them, nothing operated more 
upon their imaginations, than the tender strokes 
of nature, which the poet had wrought up in 
that pathetic speech of Perseus, O Cupid, prince 
ofQ-ods and men, &c. Every man almost spoke 
pure iambics the next day, and talk'd of nothing 
but Perseus his pathetic address — "O Cupid, 
prince of Gods and men*' — in every street 
of Abdera, in every house — "O Cupid ! Cu- 
pid!" — in every mouth, like the natural notes 



1653 
of some sweet melody which drops from it 
whether it will or no — nothing but << Cupid ! 
Cupid ! prince of Gods and men." — The fire 
caught — and the whole city, like the heart of 
one man, opened itself to Love. 

No pharmacopolist could sell one grain of 
hellebore — not a single armourer had a heart 
to forge one instrument of death. — Friendship 
and Virtue met together, and kiss'd each other 
in the street — the golden age returned, and 
hung over the town of Abdera — every Ab- 
derite took his oaten pipe, and every Abder- 
itish woman left her purple web, and chastely 
sat her down and listened to the song. — 

'Twas only in the power, says the Frag- 
ment, of the God whose empire extendeth 
from heaven to earth, and even to the depths 
of the sea, to have done this. 



[6^] 



MONTRIUL 



WHEN all is ready, and every article is 
disputed and paid for in the inn, unless 
you are a little sour'd by the adventure, there 
is always a matter to compound at the door, 
before you can get into your chaise, and that is 
with the sons and daughters of poverty, who 
surround you. Let no man say, " let them go 
to the devil'' — 'tis a cruel journey to send a 
few miserables, and they have had sufferings 
enow without it : I always think it better to 
take a few sous out in my hand ; and I would 
counsel every gentle traveler to do so likewise ; 
he need not be so exact in setting down his 
motives for giving them. — They will be regis- 
ter 'd elsewhere. 

For my own part, there is no man gives so 
little as I do; for few, that I know, have so little 
to give : but as this was the first public act of 
my charity in France, I took the more notice 
of it. 

A well-a-way! said I, I have but eight sous 
in the world, showing them in my hand, and 



[671 

there are eight poor men and eight poor wo- 
men for 'em. 

A poor tatter 'd soul, without a shirt on, 
instantly withdrew his claim, by retiring two 
steps out of the circle, and making a disquali- 
fying bow on his part. Had the whole parterre 
cried out, Tlace aux dames, with one voice, it 
would not have conveyed the sentiment of a 
deference for the sex with half the effect. 

Just Heaven ! for what wise reasons hast 
thou ordered it, that beggary and urbanity, 
which are at such variance in other countries, 
should find a way to be at unity in this? 

— I insisted upon presenting him with a 
single sou, merely for his politesse, 

A poor little dwarfish, brisk fellow, who 
stood over against me in the circle, putting 
something first under his arm, which had once 
been a hat, took his snuff-box out of his pocket, 
and generously ofler'd a pinch on both sides of 
him: it was a gift of consequence, and modestly 
declined. — The poor little fellow press'd it up- 
on them with a nod of welcomeness. — ^renez 
en — prenezy said he, looking another way; so 
they each took a pinch. — Pity thy box should 
ever want one, said I to myself; so I put a couple 
of sous into it — taking a small pinch out of his 



[68:i 

box to enhance their value, as I did it. — He felt 
the weight of the second obligation more than 
that of the first — 'twas doing him an honour — 
the other was only doing him a charity — and 
he made me a bow down to the ground for it. 

— Here! said I to an old soldier with one 
hand, who had been campaigned and worn out 
to death in the service — here 's a couple of 
sous for thee. Vive le Roi! said the old soldier. 

I had then but three sous left: so I gave one, 
simply pour V amour de *T>ieUy which was the 
footing on which it was begg'd. — The poor 
woman had a dislocated hip ; so it could not be 
well upon any other motive. 

(*JMon cher et tres charitable oJMonsieur — 
There 's no opposing this, said I. 

<^jMy Lord c^yTnglois — the very sound was 
worth the money — so I gave my last sou for 
it. But in the eagerness of giving, I had over- 
looked 2ipauvre honteux, who had no one to ask 
a sou for him, and who, I believed, would have 
perish'd ere he could have ask'd one for him- 
self; he stood by the chaise, a little without the 
circle, and wiped a tear from a face which I 
thought had seen better days. — Good God! 
said I — and I have not one single sou left to 
give him. — But you have a thousand! cried all 



1693 
the powers of nature, stirring within me — so 
I gave him — no matter what — I am ashamed 
to say how muchy now — and was ashamed to 
think how Httle, then : so if the reader can form 
any conjecture of my disposition, as these two 
fixed points are given him, he may judge with- 
in a hvre or two what was the precise sum. 

I could afford nothing for the rest, but Dieu 
vous henisse — Et le hon T)ieu vous henisse en- 
core — said the old soldier, the dwarf, &c. The 
pauvre honteux could say nothing — he pull'd 
out a little handkerchief, and wiped his face as 
he turned away — and I thought he thank'd me 
more than them all. 



[70;] 

THE BIDET 

HAVING settled all these little matters, 
I got into my post-chaise with more ease 
than ever I got into a post-chaise in my life; 
and La Fleur having got one large jack-boot 
on the far side of a little bidet, ^ and another on 
this ( for I count nothing of his legs ) — he can- 
tered away before me as happy and as perpen- 
dicular as a prince. — 

— But what is happiness ! what is grandeur 
in this painted scene of life ! A dead ass, be- 
fore we had got a league, put a sudden stop to 
La Fleur 's career — his bidet would not pass 
by it — a contention arose betwixt them, and 
the poor fellow was kick'd outof his jack-boots 
the very first kick. 

La Fleur bore his fall like a French Chris- 
tian, saying neither more or less upon it, than, 
Diable ! so presently got up and came to the 
charge again astride his bidet, beating him up 
to it as he would have beat his drum. 

The bidet flew from one side of the road to 
the other, then back again — then this way — 
then that way, and in short every way but by 

*Post-horse. 



the dead ass. — La Fleur insisted upon the 
thing — and the bidet threw him. 

What's the matter, La Fleur, said I, with 
this bidet of thine ? — Monsieur, said he, c'est un 
cheval le plus opiniatre du monde, — Nay, if he 
is a conceited beast, he must go his own way, 
replied I — so La Fleur got off him, and giving 
him a good sound lash, the bidet took me at 
my word, and away he scamper 'd back to Mon- 
triul. — ^este ! said La Fleur. 

It is not mal-a-propos to take notice here, that 
tho* La Fleur availed himself but of two dif- 
ferent terms of exclamation in this encounter 
— namely, *T>iaUe! and "Teste! that there are 
nevertheless three in the French language, 
like the positive, comparative, and superlative, 
one or the other of which serve for every un- 
expected throw of the dice in life. 

Le liable! which is the first, and positive 
degree, is generally used upon ordinary emo- 
tions of the mind, where small things only fall 
out contrary to your expectations — such as — 
the throwing once doublets — La Fleur's being 
kick'd off^his horse, and so forth — cuckoldom, 
for the same reason, is always — Le Triable ! 

But in cases where the cast has something 
provoking in it, as in that of the bidet's run- 



ning away after, and leaving La Fleur aground 
in jack-boots — 't is the second degree. 

'Tis then Teste! 

And for the third — 

— But here my heart is wrung with pity 
and fellow-feehng, when I reflect what mis- 
eries must have been their lot, and how bitterly 
so refined a people must have smarted, to have 
forced them upon the use of it. — 

Grant me, O ye powers which touch the 
tongue with eloquence in distress! — whatever 
is my casty grant me but decent words to ex- 
claim in, and I will give my nature way. 

— But as these were not to be had in France, 
I resolved to take every evil just as it befell 
me, without any exclamation at all. 

La Fleur, who had made no such covenant 
with himself, followed the bidet with his eyes 
till it was got out of sight — and then, you may 
imagine, if you please, with what word he 
closed the whole affair. 

As there was no hunting down a frighten'd 
horse in jack-boots, there remained no alter- 
native but taking La Fleur either behind the 
chaise, or into it. — 

I preferred the latter, and in half an hour 
we got to the post-house at Nampont. 



NAMPONT 
THE DEAD ASS 

AND this, said he, putting the remains of 
a crust into his wallet — and this should 
have been thy portion, said he, hadst thou been 
alive to have shared it with me. I thought by 
the accent, it had been an apostrophe to his 
child; but 'twas to his ass, and to the very ass 
we had seen dead in the road, which had oc- 
casioned La Fleur's misadventure. The man 
seemed to lament it much ; and it instantly 
brought into my mind Sancho's lamentation 
for his ; but he did it with more true touches 
of nature. 

The mourner was sitting upon a stone bench 
at the door, with the ass's pannel and its bridle 
on one side, which he took up from time to 
time — then laid them down — look'd at them 
and shook his head. He then took his crust of 
bread out of his wallet again, as if to eat it ; 
held it some time in his hand — then laid it 
upon the bit of his ass's bridle — looked wist- 
fully at the little arrangement he had made — 
and then gave a sigh. 



[74] 

The simplicity of his grief drew numbers 
about him, and La Fleur amongst the rest, 
whilst the horses were getting ready ; as I con- 
tinued sitting in the post-chaise, I could see 
and hear over their heads. 

— He said he had come last from Spain, 
where he had been from the furthest borders 
of Franconia ; and had got so far on his return 
home, when his ass died. Every one seem'd 
desirous to know what business could have 
taken so old and poor a man so far a journey 
from his own home. 

It had pleased Heaven, he said, to bless him 
with three sons, the finest lads in all Germany; 
but having in one week lost two of the eldest 
of them by the smallpox, and the youngest fall- 
ing ill of the same distemper, he was afraid of 
being bereft of them all ; and made a vow, if 
Heaven would not take him from him also, he 
would go in gratitude to St. lago in Spain. 

When the mourner got thus far on his story, 
he stopp'd to pay nature his tribute — and wept 
bitterly. 

He said. Heaven had accepted the condi- 
tions, and that he had set out from his cottage 
with this poor creature, who had been a patient 
partner of his journey — that it had eat the 



same bread with him all the way, and was unto 
him as a friend. 

Everybody who stood about, heard the poor 
fellow with concern. — La Fleur offered him 
money. — The mourner said, he did not want 
it — it was not the value of the ass — but the 
loss of him. — The ass, he said, he was assured 
loved him — and upon this told them a long 
story of a mischance upon their passage over 
the Pyrenean mountains, which had separated 
them from each other three days ; during which 
time the ass had sought him as much as he had 
sought the ass, and that they had neither scarce 
eat or drank till they met. 

Thou hast one comfort, friend, said I, at 
least, in the loss of thy poor beast; I 'm sure 
thou hast been a merciful master to him. — 
Alas ! said the mourner,! thought so, when he 
was alive — but now that he is dead I think 
otherwise. — I fear the weight of myself and 
my afflictions together have been too much for 
him — they have shortened the poor creature's 
days, and I fear I have them to answer for. 
— Shame on the world ! said I to myself — Did 
we love each other, as this poor soul but loved 
his ass — 't would be something. — 



C76] 



NAMPONT 
THE POSTILION 



THE concern which the poor fellow's 
story threw me into required some at- 
tention : the postilion paid not the least to it, 
but set off upon the pave in a full gallop. 

The thirstiest soul in the most sandy desert 
of Arabia could not have wished more for a 
cup of cold water, than mine did for grave and 
quiet movements ; and I should have had an 
high opinion of the postilion, had he but stolen 
off with me in something like a pensive pace. 
— On the contrary, as the mourner finished 
his lamentation, the fellow gave an unfeeling 
lash to each of his beasts, and set off clattering 
like a thousand devils. 

I called to him as loud as I could, for hea- 
ven's sake to go slower — and the louder I 
called, the more unmercifully he galloped. — 
The deuce take him and his galloping too — 
said I — heTl go on tearing my nerves to pieces 
till he has worked me into a foolish passion. 



[77:1 

and then he' 11 go slow, that I may enjoy the 
sweets of it. 

The postilion managed the point to a mira- 
cle : by the time he had got to the foot of a 
steep hill about half a league from Nampont, 
he had put me out of temper with him — and 
then with myself, for being so. 

My case then required a different treatment; 
and a good rattling gallop would have been of 
real service to me. — 

— Then, prithee, get on — get on, my good 
lad, said I. 

The postilion pointed to the hill — I then 
tried to return back to the story of the poor 
German and his ass — but I had broke the clue 
— and could no more get into it again, than the 
postilion could into a trot. — 

— The deuce go, said I, with it all ! Here 
am I sitting as candidly disposed to make the 
best of the worst, as ever wight was, and all 
runs counter. 

There is one sweet lenitive at least for evils, 
which Nature holds out to us : so I took it 
kindly at her hands, and fell asleep ; and the 
first word which roused me was (^miens, 

— Bless me! said I, rubbing my eyes — this 
is the very town where my poor lady is to come. 



[78] 



AMIENS 



THE words were scarce out of my mouth, 
when the Count de L***'s post-chaise, 
with his sister in it, drove hastily by : she had 
just time to make me a bow of recognition 
— and of that particular kind of it which told 
me she had not yet done with me. She was as 
good as her look ; for, before I had quite fin- 
ished my supper, her brother's servant came 
into the room with a billet, in which she said 
she had taken the liberty to charge me with a 
letter, which I w^as to present myself to Ma- 
dame R*** the first morning I had nothing to 
do at Paris. There was only added, she was 
sorry, but from what penchant she had not con- 
sidered, that she had been prevented telling me 
her story — that she still owed it me; and if 
my route should ever lay through Brussels, and 
I had not by then forgot the name of Madame 
de L*** — that Madame de L*** would be 
glad to discharge her obligation. 

Then I will meet thee, said I, fair spirit ! 
at Brussels — 'tis only returning from Italy 



C793 
through Germany to Holland, by the route of 
Flanders, home — 'twill scarce be ten posts 
out of my way ; but were it ten thousand ! with 
what a moral delight will it crown my journey, 
in sharing in the sickening incidents of a tale 
of misery told to me by such a sufferer ! to see 
her weep ! and though I cannot dry up the foun- 
tain of her tears, what an exquisite sensation is 
there still left, in wiping them away from off 
the cheeks of the first and fairest of women, as 
I 'm sitting with my handkerchief in my hand 
in silence the whole night beside her? 

There was nothing wrong in the sentiment ; 
and yet I instantly reproached my heart with 
it in the bitterest and most reprobate of ex- 
pressions. 

It had ever, as I told the reader, been one of 
the singular blessings of my life, to be almost 
every hour of it miserably in love with some 
one ; and my last flame happening to be blown 
out by a whiff of jealousy on the sudden turn 
of a corner, I had lighted it up afresh at the 
pure taper of Eliza but about three months be- 
fore — swearing as I did it, that it should last 
me through the whole journey. — Why should 
I dissemble the matter ? I had sworn to her 
eternal fidelity — she had a right to my whole 



[So;] 

heart — to divide my affections was to lessen 
them — to expose them, was to risk them : 
where there is risk, there may be loss — and 
what wilt thou have, Yorick ! to answer to a 
heart so full of trust and confidence — so good, 
so gentle, and unreproaching ! 

— I will not go to Brussels, replied I, inter- 
rupting myself — but my imagination went on 
— I recaird her looks at that crisis of our sep- 
aration, when neither of us had power to say 
Adieu ! I look'd at the picture she had tied in 
a black ribband about my neck — and blush'd 
as I look'd at it. — I would have given the world 
to have kissed it — but was ashamed — and shall 
this tender flower, said I, pressing it between 
my hands — shall it be smitten to its very root 
— and smitten, Yorick ! by thee, who hast 
promised to shelter it in thy breast. 

Eternal fountain of happiness! said I, kneel- 
ing down upon the ground — be thou my wit- 
ness — and every pure spirit which tastes it, 
be my witness also. That I would not travel 
to Brussels, unless Eliza went along with me, 
did the road lead me towards heaven. 

In transports of this kind, the heart, in 
spite of the understanding, will always say too 
much. 



C81] 



THE LETTER 
AMIENS 



FORTUNE had not smiled upon La Fleur; 
for he had been unsuccessful in his feats 
of chivalry — and not one thing had offered to 
signahze his zeal for my service from the time 
he had enter 'd into it, which was almost four 
and twenty hours. The poor soul burn'd with 
impatience; and the Count de L***'s servant's 
coming with the letter, being the first practic- 
able occasion which offered, La Fleur had laid 
hold of it ; and in order to do honour to his 
master, had taken him into a back parlour in 
the Auberge, and treated him with a cup or two 
of the best wine in Picardy ; and the Count de 
L***'s servant, in return, and not to be be- 
hindhand in politeness with La Fleur, had taken 
him back with him to the Count's hotel. La 
Fleur' s prevenancy (for there was a passport 
in his very looks ) soon set every servant in the 
kitchen at ease with him ; and as a Frenchman, 
whatever be his talents, has no sort of prudery 



[SO 

in showing them, La Fleur, in less than five 
minutes, had pulled out his fife, and leading off' 
the dance himself with the first note, set the 
Jille de chamhre, the maitre d'hotel, the cook, 
the scullion, and all the household, dogs and 
cats, besides an old monkey, a-dancing. I sup- 
pose there never was a merrier kitchen since 
the flood. 

Madame de L***, in passing from her bro- 
ther's apartments to her own, hearing so much 
jollity below stairs, rung up her Jille de chambre 
to ask about it; and hearing it was the Engfish 
gentleman's servant who had set the whole 
house merry with his pipe, she order'd him up. 

As the poor fellow could not present him- 
self empty, he had loaden'd himself in going 
up-stairs with a thousand compliments to Ma- 
dame de L***, on the part of his master — 
added a long apocrypha of inquiries after 
Madame de L***'s health — told her, that 
Monsieur his master was au desespoir for her 
reestablishment from the fatigues of her jour- 
ney — and, to close all, that Monsieur had re- 
ceived the letter which Madame had done him 
the honour — And he has done me the honour, 
said Madame de L***, interrupting La Fleur, 
to send a billet in return. 



Madame de L*** had said this with such a 
tone of rehance upon the fact, that La Fleur 
had not power to disappoint her expectations 
— he trembled for my honour — and possibly 
might not altogether be unconcerned for his 
own, as a man capable of being attached to a 
master who could be a- wanting en egards vis- 
a-vis d'une femme ! so that when Madame de 
L*** asked La Fleur if he had brought a let- 
ter — O quoui, said La Fleur ; so laying down 
his hat upon the ground, and taking hold of the 
flap of his right side pocket with his left hand, 
he began to search for the letter with his right 
— then contrariwise. — Diable ! — then sought 
every pocket — pocket by pocket, round, not 
forgetting his fob — Teste! — then La Fleur 
emptied them upon the floor — pulled out a 
dirty cravat — a handkerchief — a comb — a 
whip lash — a night-cap — then gave a peep 
into his hat — Quelle etourderie! He had left 
the letter upon the table in the Auberge — he 
would run for it, and be back with it in three 
minutes. 

I had just finished my supper when La Fleur 
came in to give me an account of his adventure : 
he told the whole story simply as it was ; and 
only added, that if Monsieur had forgot [par 



[84:] 

hazard) to answer Madame's letter, the ar- 
rangement gave him an opportunity to recover 
the faux pas — and if not, that things were only 
as they were. 

Now I was not altogether sure of my eti- 
quette, whether I ought to have wrote or no ; 
but if I had — a devil himself could not have 
been angry : 't was but the officious zeal of a 
well-meaning creature for my honour; and 
however he might have mistook the road — or 
embarrassed me in so doing — his heart was in 
no fault — I was under no necessity to write — 
and what weighed more than all — he did not 
look as if he had done amiss. 

— 'Tis all very well, La Fleur, said I. — 
'T was sufficient. La Fleur flew out of the room 
like lightning, and return'd with pen, ink, and 
paper, in his hand; and coming up to the table, 
laid them close before me, with such a delight 
in his countenance, that I could not help taking 
up the pen. 

I begun and begun again; and though I had 
nothing to say, and that nothing might have 
been expressed in half a dozen lines, I made 
half a dozen different beginnings, and could no 
way please myself. 

In short, I was in no mood to write. 



C85:i 

La Fleur stepp'd out and brought a little 
water in a glass to dilute my ink — thenfetch'd 
sand and seal-wax. — It was all one; I wrote, 
and blotted, and tore off, and burnt, and wrote 
again. — Le diahle Vemporte, said I half to my- 
self, I cannot write this selfsame letter, throw- 
ing the pen down despairingly as I said it. 

As soon as I had cast down the pen. La Fleur 
advanced with the most respectful carriage up 
to the table, and making a thousand apologies 
for the liberty he was going to take, told me he 
had a letter in his pocket wrote by a drummer 
in his regiment to a corporal's wife, which, he 
durst say, would suit the occasion. 

I had a mind to let the poor fellow have his 
humour. — Then prithee, said I, let me see it. 

La Fleur instantly pulled out a little dirty 
pocket-book cramm'd full of small letters and 
billet-doux in a sad condition, and laying it upon 
the table, and then untying the string which 
held them all together, run them over one by 
one, till he came to the letter in question. — 
La voildy said he, clapping his hands : so un- 
folding it first, he laid it before me, and retired 
three steps from the table whilst I read it. 



[86] 



THE LETTER 

Madame, 

JE suis penetre de la douleur la plus vive, 
et reduit en meme temps au desespoir par 
ce retour impre vu du Corporal qui rend notre 
entrevue de ce soir la chose du monde la plus 
impossible. 

Mais vive la joie! et toute la mienne sera de 
penser a vous. 

L'amour n'est rien sans sentiment. 

Et le sentiment est encore moins sans amour. 

On dit qu'on ne doit jamais se desesperer. 

On dit aussi que Monsieur le Corporal monte 
la garde Mercredi: alors ce sera mon tour. 

Chacun a son tour. 

En attendant — Vive T amour! et vive la 
bagatelle ! 

Je suis, Madame, 

Avec toutes les sentiments les 

plus respectueux et les plus 

tendres, tout a vous, 

Jaques Roque. 

It was but changing the Corporal into the 



^873 

Count — and saying nothing about mounting 
guard on Wednesday — and the letter was 
neither right or wrong — so to gratify the poor 
fellow who stood trembling, for my honour, his 
own, and the honour of his letter — I took the 
cream gently off it, and whipping it up in my 
own way — I seaPd it up and sent him with it 
to Madame de L*** — and the next morning 
we pursued our journey to Paris. 



C883 



PARIS 



WHEN a man can contest the point by 
dint of equipage, and carry all on floun- 
dering before him with half a dozen lackeys 
and a couple of cooks — 't is very well in such 
a place as Paris — he may drive in at which end 
of a street he will. 

A poor prince who is weak in cavalry, and 
whose whole infantry does not exceed a single 
man, had best quit the field ; and signalize him- 
self in the cabinet, if he can get up into it — I 
say M^ into it — for there is no descending per- 
pendicular amongst 'em with a "M? voiciy mes 
enfans*' — here I am — whatever many may 
think. 

I own my first sensations, as soon as I was 
left solitary and alone in my own chamber in 
the hotel, were far from being so flattering as 
I had prefigured them. I walked up gravely to 
the window in my dusty black coat, and look- 
ing through the glass saw all the world in yel- 
low, blue, and green, running at the ring of 
pleasure. — The old with broken lances, and 



in helmets which had lost their vizards — the 
young in armor bright which shone like gold, 
beplumed with each gay feather of the east — 
all — all tilting at it like fascinated knights in 
tournaments of yore for fame and love. — 

Alas, poor Yorick ! cried I, what art thou 
doing here? On the very first onset of all this 
glittering clatter thou art reduced to an atom. 
— Seek — seek some winding alley, with a 
tourniquet at the end of it, where chariot never 
rolled or flambeau shot its rays — there thou 
mayest solace thy soul in converse sweet with 
some kind grisset of a barber's wife, and get 
into such coteries ! — 

— May I perish ! if I do, said I, pulling out 
the letter which I had to present to Madame 
de R***. — 1 11 wait upon this lady, the very 
first thing I do. So I calPd La Fleur to go seek 
me a barber directly — and come back and 
brush my coat. 



[90] 



THE WIG 
PARIS 



WHEN the barber came, he absolutely 
refused to have anything to do with my 
wig: 'twas either above or below his art: I had 
nothing to do, but to take one ready made of 
his own recommendation. 

— But I fear, friend! said I, this buckle won't 
stand. — You may immerge it, replied he, into 
the ocean, and it will stand. — 

What a great scale is everything upon in 
this city ! thought I. — The utmost stretch of 
an English periwig-maker's ideas could have 
gone no further than to have '^dipp'd it into a 
pail of water." — What difference ! 't is like 
time to eternity. 

I confess I do hate all cold conceptions, as I 
do the puny ideas which engender them; and 
am generally so struck with the great works 
of nature, that for my own part, if I could 
help it, I never would make a comparison less 
than a mountain at least. All that can be said 



against the French subhme in this instance of 
it, is this — that the grandeur is more in the word^ 
and less in the thing. No doubt the ocean fills 
the mind with vast ideas ; but Paris being so far 
inland, it was not likely I should run post a 
hundred miles out of it, to try the experiment. 
— The Parisian barber meant nothing. — 

The pail of water standing beside the great 
deep, makes certainly but a sorry figure in 
speech — but 'twill be said — it has one advan- 
tage — 't is in the next room, and the truth of 
the buckle maybe tried in it, without more ado, 
in a single moment. 

In honest truth, and upon a more candid re- 
vision of the matter, the French expression pro- 
fesses more than it performs. 

I think I can see the precise and distinguish- 
ing marks of national characters more in these 
nonsensical minutice, than in the most impor- 
tant matters of state ; where great men of all 
nations talk and stalk so much alike, that I 
would not give ninepence to choose amongst 
them. 

I was so long in getting from under my 
barber's hands, that it was too late to think of 
going with my letter to Madame R*** that 
night: but when a man is once dressed at all 



points for going out, his reflections turn to little 
account ; so taking down the name of the Hotel 
de Modene, where I lodged, I walked forth 
without any determination where to go — I 
shall consider of that, said I, as I walk along. 



C933 



THE PULSE 
PARIS 



HAIL ye small sweet courtesies of life, 
for smooth do ye make the road of it! 
like grace and beauty which beget inclinations 
to love at first sight : 't is ye who open this door 
and let the stranger in. 

— Pray, Madame, said I, have the goodness 
to tell me which way I must turn to go to the 
Opera Comique : — Most willingly, Monsieur, 
said she, laying aside her work. — 

I had given a cast with my eye into half a 
dozen shops as I came along in search of a face 
not likely to be disordered by such an inter- 
ruption; till at last, this hitting my fancy, I had 
walked in. 

She was working a pair of ruffles as she sat 
in a low chair on the far side of the shop facing 
the door. 

— Tres volontiers; most willingly, said she, 
laying her work down upon a chair next her, 
and rising up from the low chair she was sitting 



in, with so cheerful a movement and so cheer- 
ful a look, that had I been a lying out fifty louis 
d'ors with her, I should have said — <* This 
woman is grateful/' 

You must turn, Monsieur, said she, going 
with me to the door of the shop, and pointing 
the way down the street I was to take — you 
must turn first to your left hand — maisprenez 
garde — there are two turns ; and be so good as 
to take the second — then go down a little way 
and you '11 see a church, and when you are past 
it, give yourself the trouble to turn directly to 
the right, and that will lead you to the foot of 
the ^ont JsTeuf, which you must cross — and 
there any one will do himself the pleasure to 
show you — 

She repeated her instructions three times 
over to me, with the same good-natur'd pa- 
tience the third time as the first — and if tones 
and manners have a meaning, which certainly 
they have, unless to hearts which shut them 
out — she seem'd really interested, that I 
should not lose myself. 

I will not suppose it was the woman's 
beauty, notwithstanding she was the hand- 
somest grisset, I think, I ever saw, which had 
much to do with the sense I had of her cour- 



c:953 

tesy; only I remember, when I told her how 
much I was obliged to her, that I looked very 
full in her eyes — and that I repeated my 
thanks as often as she had done her instruc- 
tions. 

I had not got ten paces from the door, be- 
fore I found I had forgot every tittle of what 
she had said — so looking back, and seeing her 
still standing in the door of the shop as if to 
look whether I went right or not — I returned 
back, to ask her whether the first turn was to 
my right or left — for that I had absolutely for- 
got. — Is it possible? said she, half laughing. 
— 'T is very possible, replied I, when a man is 
thinking more of a woman, than of her good 
advice. 

As this was the real truth — she took it, as 
every woman takes a matter of right, with a 
slight courtesy. 

— Attendez, said she, laying her hand upon 
my arm to detain me, whilst she called a lad 
out of the back shop to get ready a parcel of 
gloves. I am just going to send him, said she, 
with a packet into that quarter, and if you will 
have the complaisance to step in, it will be 
ready in a moment, and he shall attend you to 
the place. — So I walked in with her to the far 



side of the shop, and taking up the ruffle in 
my hand which she laid upon the chair, as if I 
had a mind to sit, she sat down herself in her 
low chair, and I instantly sat myself down be- 
sides her. 

— He will be ready. Monsieur, said she, in 
a moment. — And in that moment, replied I, 
most willingly would I say something very civil 
to you for all these courtesies. Any one may 
do a casual act of good nature, but a continua- 
tion of them shows it is a part of the tempera- 
ture; and certainly, added I, if it is the same 
blood which comes from the heart, which de- 
scends to the extremes (^touching her wrist), 
I am sure you must have one of the best pulses 
of any woman in the world. — Feel it, said she, 
holding out her arm. So laying down my hat, 
I took hold of her fingers in one hand, and ap- 
plied the two forefingers of my other to the 
artery. — 

— Would to heaven ! my dear Eugenius, 
thou hadst passed by, and beheld me sitting in 
my black coat, and in my lack-a-day-sical man- 
ner, counting the throbs of it, one by one, with 
as much true devotion as if I had been watch- 
ing the critical ebb or flow of her fever. — How 
wouldst thou have laugh'd and moralized upon 



C97:i 

my new profession — and thou shouldst have 
laugh'd and morahzed on — Trust me, my dear 
EugeniuSjI should have said/<there are worse 
occupations in this world than feeling a woman s 
pulse,'' — But a Grisset^s ! thou wouldst have 
said — and in an open shop! Yorick — 

— So much the better: for when my views 
are direct, Eugenius,! care not if all the world 
saw me feel it. 



[983 



THE HUSBAND 
PARIS 



I HAD counted twenty pulsations, and was 
going on fast towards the fortieth, when her 
husband coming unexpected from a back par- 
lour into the shop, put me a little out of my 
reckoning. — 'T was nobody but her husband, 
she said — so I began a fresh score, — Monsieur 
is so good, quoth she, as he pass'd by us, as to 
give himself the trouble of feeling my pulse. 

— The husband took off his hat, and making 
me a bow, said, I did him too much honour — 
and having said that, he put on his hat and 
walked out. 

Good God ! said I to myself, as he went out 

— and can this man be the husband of this wo- 
man! 

Let it not torment the few who know what 
must have been the grounds of this exclama- 
tion, if I explain it to those who do not. 

In London a shopkeeper and a shopkeeper's 
wife seem to be one bone and one flesh: in the 



several endowments of mind and body, some- 
times the one, sometimes the other has it, so as 
in general to be upon a par, and to tally with 
each other as nearly as man and wife need to 
do. 

In Paris, there are scarce two orders of be- 
ings more different: for the legislative and ex- 
ecutive powers of the shop not resting in the 
husband, he seldom comes there — in some dark 
and dismal room behind, he sits commerceless 
in his thrum nightcap, the same rough son of 
Nature that Nature left him. 

The genius of a people where nothing but 
the monarchy is salique, having ceded this de- 
partment, with sundry others, totally to the 
women — by a continual higgling with cus- 
tomers of all ranks and sizes from morning to 
night, like so many rough pebbles shook long 
together in a bag, by amicable collisions, they 
have worn down their asperities and sharp 
angles, and not only become round and smooth, 
but will receive, some of them, a polish like a 
brilliant. — Monsieur le ^JMari is little better 
than the stone under your foot. — 

— Surely — surely, man! it is not good for 
thee to sit alone — thou wast made for social 
intercourse and gentle greetings, and this im- 



Cioo] 

provement of our natures from it, I appeal to, 
as my evidence. 

— And how does it beat, Monsieur? said she. 
— With all the benignity, said I, looking 
quietly in her eyes, that I expected. — She was 
going to say something civil in return — but 
the lad came into the shop with the gloves. — 
Apropos, said I, I want a couple of pair myself. 



C^oo 



THE GLOVES 
PARIS 



THE beautiful Grisset rose up when I said 
this, and going behind the counter, 
reach'd down a parcel and untied it: I ad- 
vanced to the side over against her: they were 
all too large. The beautiful Grisset measured 
them one by one across my hand. — It would 
not alter the dimensions. — She begg'd I would 
try a single pair, which seemed to be the least. 
— She held it open — my hand slipped into it 
at once. — It will not do, said I, shaking my 
head a little. — No, said she, doing the same 
thing. 

There are certain combined looks of simple 
subtlety — where whim, and sense, and seri- 
ousness, and nonsense, are so blended, that all 
the languages of Babel set loose together could 
not express them — they are communicated 
and caught so instantaneously, that you can 
scarce say which party is the infecter. I leave 
it to your men of words to swell pages about 



it — it is enough in the present to say again, 
the gloves would not do; so folding our hands 
within our arms, we both loll'd upon the coun- 
ter — it was narrow, and there was just room 
for the parcel to lay between us. 

The beautiful Grisset look'd sometimes at 
the gloves, then sideways to the window, then 
at the gloves — and then at me. I was not dis- 
posed to break silence. — I followed her ex- 
ample: so I look'd at the gloves, then to the 
window, then at the gloves, and then at her — 
and so on alternately. 

I found I lost considerably in every attack 
— she had a quick black eye, and shot through 
two such long and silken eyelashes with such 
penetration, that she look'd into my very heart 
and reins. — It may seem strange, but I could 
actually feel she did. — 

— It is no matter, said I, taking up a couple 
of the pairs next me, and putting them into my 
pocket. 

I was sensible the beautiful Grisset had not 
ask'd above a single livre above the price. — 
I wish'd she had ask'd a livre more, and was 
puzzling my brains how to bring the matter 
about. — Do you think, my dear Sir, said she, 
mistaking my embarrassment, that I could ask 



a sou too much of a stranger — and of a stran- 
ger whose pohteness, more than his want of 
gloves, has done me the honour to lay himself 
at my mercy ? — M'en croyez capable ? — Faith ! 
not I, said I; and if you were, you are welcome. 
— So counting the money into her hand, and 
with a lower bow than one generally makes to 
a shopkeeper's wife, I went out, and her lad 
with his parcel followed me. 



[104] 



THE TRANSLATION 
PARIS 



THERE was nobody in the box I was let 
into but a kindly old French officer. I 
love the character, not only because I honour 
the man whose manners are softened by a 
profession which makes bad men worse; but 
that I once knew one — for he is no more — 
and why should I not rescue one page from 
violation by writing his name in it, and telling 
the world it was Captain Tobias Shandy, the 
dearest of my flock and friends, whose philan- 
thropy I never think of at this long distance 
from his death — but my eyes gush out with 
tears. For his sake, I have a predilection for 
the whole corps of veterans ; and so I strode 
over the two back rows of benches, and placed 
myself beside him. 

The old officer was reading attentively a 
small pamphlet, it might be the book of the 
opera, with a large pair of spectacles. As soon 
as I sat down, he took his spectacles off, and 



putting them into a shagreen case, returned 
them and the book into his pocket together. I 
half rose up, and made him a bow. 

Translate this into any civilized language in 
the world — the sense is this: 

*< Here's a poor stranger come into the box 
— he seems as if he knew nobody; and is never 
likely, was he to be seven years in Paris, if 
every man he comes near keeps his spectacles 
upon his nose — 'tis shutting the door of con- 
versation absolutely in his face — and using him 
worse than a German.*' 

The French officer might as well have said 
it all aloud: and if he had, I should in course 
have put the bow I made him into French too, 
and told him, "I was sensible of his attention, 
and returned him a thousand thanks for it." 

There is not a secret so aiding to the pro- 
gress of sociality, as to get master of this short- 
hand, and be quick in rendering the several 
turns of looks and hmbs, with all their inflec- 
tions and delineations, into plain words. For my 
own part, by long habitude, I do it so mechan- 
ically, that when I walk the streets of London, 
I go translating all the way; and have more 
than once stood behind in the circle, where not 
three words have been said, and have brought 



[106] 

off twenty different dialogues with me, which 
I could have fairly wrote down and sworn to. 
I was going one evening to Martini's con- 
cert at Milan, and was just entering the door 
of the hall, when the Marquisina di F*** was 
coming out in a sort of a hurry — she was al- 
most upon me before I saw her; so I gave a 
spring to one side to let her pass. — She had 
done the same, and on the same side too: so we 
ran our heads together: she instantly got to the 
other side to get out: I was just as unfortunate 
as she had been ; for I had sprung to that side, 
and opposed her passage again. — We both 
flew together to the other side, and then back — 
and so on — it was ridiculous; we both blush'd 
intolerably; so I did at last the thing I should 
have done at first — I stood stock-still, and the 
Marquisina had no more difficulty. I had no 
power to go into the room, till I had made her 
so much reparation as to wait and follow her 
with my eye to the end of the passage. — She 
look'd back twice, and walk'd along it rather 
sideways, as if she would make room for any 
one coming up-stairs to pass her. — No, said I 
— that's a vile translation: the Marquisina has 
a right to the best apology I can make her; and 
that opening is left for me to do it in — so I ran 



and begg'd pardon for the embarrassment I 
had given her, saying it was my intention to 
have made her way. She answer'd, she was 
guided by the same intention towards me — so 
we reciprocally thank 'd each other. She was 
at the top of the stairs; and seeing no chiches- 
hee near her, I begg'd to hand her to her coach 
— so we went down the stairs, stopping at 
every third step to talk of the concert and the 
adventure. — Upon my word, Madame, said I, 
when I had handed her in, I made six different 
efforts to let you go out. — And I made six ef- 
forts, replied she, to let you enter. — I wish to 
heaven you would make a seventh, said I. — 
With all my heart, said she, making room. — 
Life is too short to be long about the forms of 
it — so I instantly stepp'd in, and she carried 
me home with her. — And what became of the 
concert, St. Cecilia, who, I suppose, was at it, 
knows more than I. 

I will only add, that the connection which 
arose out of that translation, gave me more 
pleasure than any one I had the honour to 
make in Italy. 



[108 ;] 



THE DWARF 
PARIS 



I HAD never heard the remark made by 
any one in my life, except by one; and 
who that was will probably come out in this 
chapter; so that being pretty much unprepos- 
sessed, there must have been grounds for what 
struck me the moment I cast my eyes over 
the parterre — and that was, the unaccountable 
sport of nature in forming such numbers of 
dwarfs. — No doubt, she sports at certain times 
in almost every corner of the world; but in 
Paris, there is no end to her amusements. — 
The goddess seems almost as merry as she is 
wise. 

As I carried my idea out of the opera comique 
with me, I measured everybody I saw walking 
in the streets by it. — Melancholy application! 
especially where the size was extremely little 
— the face extremely dark — the eyes quick 
— the nose long — the teeth white — the jaw 
prominent — to see so many miserables, by 



Clog] 

force of accidents driven out of their own pro- 
per class into the very verge of another, which 
it gives me pain to write down — every third 
man a pygmy ! — some by rickety heads and 
hump backs — others by bandy legs — a third 
set arrested by the hand of Nature in the sixth 
and seventh years of their growth — a fourth, 
in their perfect and natural state like dwarf 
apple-trees ; from the first rudiments and sta- 
mina of their existence, never meant to grow 
higher. 

A medical traveler might say, 't is owing to 
undue bandages — a splenetic one, to want of 
air — and an inquisitive traveler, to fortify 
the system, may measure the height of their 
houses — the narrowness of their streets, and 
in how few feet square in the sixth and seventh 
stories such numbers of the Bourgeoisie eat and 
sleep together; but I remember, Mr. Shandy 
the elder, who accounted for nothing like any- 
body else, in speaking one evening of these 
matters, averred, that children, like other ani- 
mals, might be increased almost to any size, 
provided they came right into the world ; but 
the misery was, the citizens of Paris were so 
coop'd up, that they had not actually room 
enough to get them. — I do not call it getting 



Clio;] 

anything, said he — 'tis getting nothing. — 
Nay, continued he, rising in his argument, 'tis 
getting worse than nothing, when all you have 
got, after twenty or five and twenty years of 
the tenderest care and most nutritious aliment 
bestowed upon it, shall not at last be as high 
as my leg. Now, Mr. Shandy being very short, 
there could be nothing more said of it. 

As this is not a work of reasoning, I leave 
the solution as I found it, and content myself 
with the truth only of the remark, which is 
verified in every lane and by-lane of Paris. I 
was walking down that which leads from the 
Carousal to the Palais Royal, and observing a 
little boy in some distress at the side of the 
gutter, which ran down the middle of it, I took 
hold of his hand, and help'd him over. Upon 
turning up his face to look at him after, I per- 
ceived he was about forty. — Never mind, said 
I; some good body will do as much for me, 
when I am ninety. 

I feel some little principles within me, which 
incline me to be merciful towards this poor 
blighted part of my species, who have neither 
size or strength to get on in the world — I can- 
not bear to see one of them trod upon; and had 
scarce got seated beside my old French officer. 



ere the disgust was exercised, by seeing the 
very thing happen under the box we sat in. 

At the end of the orchestra, and betwixt that 
and the first side-box, there is a small espla- 
nade left, where, when the house is full, num- 
bers of all ranks take sanctuary. Though you 
stand, as in the parterre, you pay the same price 
as in the orchestra. A poor defenseless being 
of this order had got thrust, somehow or other, 
into this luckless place — the night was hot, 
and he was surrounded by beings two feet and 
ahalf higher than himself. The dwarf suffered 
inexpressibly on all sides; but the thing which 
incommoded him most, was a tall corpulent 
German, near seven feet high, who stood di- 
rectly betwixt him and all possibilityof his see- 
ing either the stage or the actors. The poor 
dwarf did all he could to get a peep at what 
was going forwards by seeking for some little 
opening betwixt the German's arm and his 
body, trying first one side, then the other; but 
the German stood square in the most unac- 
commodating posture that can be imagined — 
the dwarf might as well have been placed at 
the bottom of the deepest draw-well in Paris; 
so he civilly reach 'd up his hand to the Ger- 
man's sleeve, and told him his distress. — The 



German turn'd his head back, looked down 
upon him as Gohah did upon David — and un- 
feehngly resumed his posture. 

I was just then taking a pinch of snuff out of 
my monk's little horn box. — And how would 
thy meek and courteous spirit, my dear monk ! 
so tempered to hearandforhear! — how sweetly 
would it have lent an ear to this poor soul's 
complaint! 

The old French officer, seeing me lift up my 
eyes with an emotion, as I made the apostro- 
phe, took the liberty to ask me what was the 
matter. — I told him the story in three words, 
and added, how inhuman it was. 

By this time the dwarf was driven to ex- 
tremes, and in his first transports, which are 
generally unreasonable, had told the German 
he would cut off' his long queue with his knife. 
— The German look'd back coolly, and told 
him he was welcome, if he could reach it. 

An injury sharpened by an insult, be it to 
whom it will, makes every man of sentiment 
a party: I could have leap'd out of the box to 
have redressed it. — The old French officer did 
it with much less confusion; for leaning a little 
over, and nodding to a sentinel, and pointing 
at the same time with his finger to the distress 



— the sentinel made his way up to it. — There 
was no occasion to tell the grievance — the 
thing told itself; so thrusting back the Ger- 
man instantly with his musket — he took the 
poor dwarf by the hand, and placed him be- 
fore him. — This is noble! said I, clapping my 
hands together. — And yet you would not per- 
mit this, said the old officer, in England. 

— In England, dear Sir, said I, we sit all at 
our ease. 

The old French officer would have set me at 
unity with myself, in case I had been at vari- 
ance, — by saying it was a hon mot — and as a 
hon mot is always worth something at Paris, he 
offered me a pinch of snuff. 



[114] 



THE ROSE 
PARIS 



IT was now my turn to ask the old French 
officer, '<what was the matter?" for a cry 
of *'Haussez les mains, (^jMonsieur VAhhe,'' re- 
echoed from a dozen different parts of the par- 
terre, was as uninteUigible to me, as my apo- 
strophe to the monk had been to him. 

He told me, it was some poor Abbd in one 
of the upper loges, who he supposed had got 
planted perdu behind a couple of grissets, in 
order to see the opera, and that the parterre 
espying him, were insisting upon his holding 
up both his hands during the representation. 
— And can it be supposed, said I, that an eccle- 
siastic would pick the grisset's pockets? The 
old French officer smiled, and whispering in 
my ear, opened a door of knowledge which I 
had no idea of. — 

Good God ! said I, turning pale with aston- 
ishment — is it possible, that a people so smit 
with sentiment should at the same time be so 



unclean, and so unlike themselves. — Quelle 
grossierte! added I. 

The French officer told me it was an illib- 
eral sarcasm at the church, which had begun 
in the theater about the time the Tartuife was 
given in it, by Moliere — but, like other re- 
mains of Gothic manners, was declining. — 
Every nation, continued he, have their refine- 
ments and grossierteSy in which they take the 
lead, and lose it of one another by turns — that 
he had been in most countries, but never in 
one where he found not some delicacies, which 
others seemed to want. Le pour et le contre 
se trouvent en chaque nation; there is a balance, 
said he, of good and bad everywhere; and no- 
thing but the knowing it is so, can emancipate 
one half of the world from the prepossessions 
which it holds against the other — that the 
advantage of travel, as it regarded the scavoir 
vivre, was by seeing a great deal both of men 
and manners; it taught us mutual toleration; 
and mutual toleration, concluded he, making 
me a bow, taught us mutual love. 

The old French officer delivered this with 
an air of such candour and good sense, as coin- 
cided with my first favourable impressions of 
his character. — I thought I loved the man ; but 



I fear I mistook the object — 'twas my own 
way of thinking — the difference was, I could 
not have expressed it half so well. 

It is alike troublesome to both the rider and 
his beast — if the latter goes pricking up his 
ears, and starting all the way at every object 
which he never saw before. — I have as little 
torment of this kind as any creature alive; and 
yet I honestly confess, that many a thing gave 
me pain, and that I blush'd at many a word the 
first month — which I found inconsequent and 
perfectly innocent the second. 

Madame de Rambouliet, after an acquaint- 
ance of about six weeks with her, had done me 
the honour to take me in her coach about two 
leagues out of town. — Of all women, Madame 
de Rambouliet is the most correct; and I never 
wish to see one of more virtues and purity of 
heart. — In our return back, Madame de Ram- 
bouliet desired me to pull the cord. — I ask'd 
her if she wanted anything. — Rien quepisser, 
said Madame de Rambouliet. 

Grieve not, gentle traveler, to let Madame 
de Rambouliet p — ss on. — And ye fair mys- 
tic nymphs ! go each one pluck your rose, and 
scatter them in your path — for Madame de 
Rambouliet did no more. — I handed Madame 



de Rambouliet out of the coach; and had I been 
the priest of the chaste Cast alia, I could not 
have served at her fountain with a more re- 
spectful decorum. 



[118] 



THE FILLE DE CHAMBRE 
PARIS 



WHAT the old French officer had de- 
hver'd upon travehng, bringing Polo- 
nius's advice to his son upon the same subject 
into my head — and that bringing in Hamlet ; 
and Hamlet the rest of Shakespeare's works, 
I stopped at the Quai de Conti in my return 
home, to purchase the whole set. 

The bookseller said he had not a set in the 
world. — Comment! said I; taking one up out 
of a set which lay upon the counter betwixt us. 
— He said, they were sent him only to be got 
bound, and were to be sent back to Versailles 
in the morning to the Count de B***. 

— And does the Count de B***, said I, read 
Shakespeare? Cest un Esprit fort, replied the 
bookseller. — He loves English books ; and 
what is more to his honour. Monsieur, he loves 
the English too. You speak this so civilly, said 
I, that it is enough to oblige an Englishman to 
lay out a Louis d'or or two at your shop. — 



The bookseller made a bow, and was going to 
say something, when a young decent girl of 
about twenty, who by her air and dress seemed 
to hejille de chamhre to some devout woman of 
fashion, came into the shop and asked for Les 
Egarements du Cceur & de V Esprit : the book- 
seller gave her the book directly ; she pulled 
out a little green satin purse, run round with 
a ribband of the same color, and putting her 
finger and thumb into it, she took out the 
money and paid for it. As I had nothing more 
to stay me in the shop, we both walk'd out of 
the door together. 

— And what have you to do, my dear, said 
I, with The JVanderings of the Heart, who scarce 
know yet you have one ; nor, till love has first 
told you it, or some faithless shepherd has 
made it ache, canst thou ever be sure it is so ? 
— Le T)ieu m'en garde! said the girl. — With 
reason, said I — for if it is a good one, 't is pity 
it should be stolen; 't is a little treasure to thee, 
and gives a better air to your face, than if it was 
dress'd out with pearls. 

The young girl listened with a submissive 
attention, holding her satin purse by its rib- 
band in her hand all the time. — 'T is a very 
small one, said I, taking hold of the bottom of 



[120] 

it — she held it towards me — and there is very 
Uttle in it, my dear, said I ; but be but as good 
as thou art handsome, and heaven will fill it : 
I had a parcel of crowns in my hand to pay for 
Shakespeare ; and as she had let go the purse 
entirely, I put a single one in ; and tying up the 
ribband in a bow-knot, returned it to her. 

The young girl made me more a humble 
courtesy than a low one — 'twas one of those 
quiet, thankful sinkings, where the spirit bows 
itself down — the body does no more than tell 
it. I never gave a girl a crown in my life which 
gave me half the pleasure. 

My advice, my dear, would not have been 
worth a pin to you, said I, if I had not given 
this along with it : but now, when you see the 
crown, you '11 remember it — so don't, my 
dear, lay it out in ribbands. 

Upon my word. Sir, said the girl, earnestly, 
I am incapable — in saying which, as is usual 
in little bargains of honour, she gave me her 
hand. — En verite, Monsieur, je mettrai cet ar- 
gent apart, said she. 

When a virtuous convention is made be- 
twixt man and woman, it sanctifies their most 
private walks ; so notwithstanding it was dusky, 
yet as both our roads lay the same way, we 



made no scruple of walking along the Quai de 
Conti together. 

She made me a second courtesy in setting 
off, and before we got twenty yards from the 
door, as if she had not done enough before, she 
made a sort of a little stop to tell me again — 
she thank'd me. 

It was a small tribute, I told her, which I 
could not avoid paying to virtue, and would not 
be mistaken in the person I had been render- 
ing it to for the world — but I see innocence, 
my dear, in your face — and foul befall the 
man who ever lays a snare in its way ! 

The girl seem'd affected some way or other 
with what I said — she gave a low sigh — I 
found I was not impowered to inquire at all 
after it — so said nothing more till I got to the 
corner of the Rue de Nevers, where we were 
to part. 

— But is this the way, my dear, said I, to 
the Hotel de Modene? she told me it was — or, 
that I might go by the Rue de Guineygaude, 
which was the next turn. — Then 1 11 go, my 
dear, by the Rue de Guineygaude, said I, for 
two reasons ; first I shall please myself, and 
next I shall give you the protection of my com- 
pany as far on your way as I can. The girl was 



[122] 

sensible I was civil — and said, she wish'd the 
Hotel de Modene was in the Rue de St. Pierre 
— You live there? said I. — She told me she 
wdis Jllle de chambre to Madame R*** — Good 
God ! said I, 't is the very lady for whom I 
have brought a letter from Amiens. — The girl 
told me that Madame R***, she believed, ex- 
pected a stranger with a letter, and was impa- 
tient to see him — so I desired the girl to pre- 
sent my compliments to Madame R***, and 
say I would certainly wait upon her in the 
morning. 

We stood still at the corner of the Rue de 
Nevers whilst this pass'd. — We then stopped 
a moment whilst she disposed of her Egare- 
ments du Cceur, &c., more commodiously than 
carrying them in her hand — they were two 
volumes ; so I held the second for her whilst 
she put the first into her pocket; and then she 
held her pocket, and I put in the other after it. 

'Tis sweet to feel by what fine-spun threads 
our affections are dravm together. 

We set off afresh, and as she took her third 
step, the girl put her hand within my arm — 
I was just bidding her — but she did it of her- 
self with that undeliberating simplicity, which 
show'd it was out of her head that she had 



never seen me before. For my own part, I felt 
the conviction of consanguinity so strongly, 
that I could not help turning half round to 
look in her face, and see if I could trace out 
anything in it of a family likeness. — Tut ! said 
I, are we not all relations? 

When we arrived at the turning up of the 
Rue de Guineygaude, I stopped to bid her adieu 
for good and all: the girl would thank me 
again for my company and kindness. — She bid 
me adieu twice — I repeated it as often ; and so 
cordial was the parting between us, that had it 
happened anywhere else, I 'm not sure but I 
should have signed it with a kiss of charity, as 
warm and holy as an apostle. 

But in Paris, as none kiss each other but 
the men — I did, what amounted to the same 
thing — 

— I bid God bless her. 



[124] 



THE PASSPORT 
PARIS 



WHEN I got home to my hotel, La Fleur 
told me I had been inquired after by 
the Lieutenant de Police. — The deuce take it! 
said I — I knowthe reason. Itis time the reader 
should know it, for in the order of things in 
which it happened, it was omitted ; not that it 
was out of my head; but that, had I told it then, 
it might have been forgot now — and now is 
the time I want it. 

I had left London with so much precipita- 
tion, that it never entered my mind that we 
were at war with France ; and had reached 
Dover, and look'd through my glass at the 
hills beyond Boulogne, before the idea pre- 
sented itself; and with this in its train, that 
there was no getting there without a passport. 
Go but to the end of a street, I have a mortal 
aversion for returning back no wiser than I set 
out; and as this was one of the greatest efforts 
I had ever made for knowledge, I could less 



bear the thoughts of it ; so hearing the Count 
de *** had hired the packet, I begg'd he 
would take me in his suite. The Count had 
some httle knowledge of me, so made little or 
no difficulty — only said, his inclination to serve 
me could reach no further than Calais, as he 
was to return by way of Brussels to Paris ; 
however, when I had once pass'd there, I might 
get to Paris without interruption ; but that in 
Paris I must make friends and shift for myself. 
— Let me get to Paris, Monsieur Le Count, 
said I — and I shall do very well. So I em- 
bark'd, and never thought more of the matter. 

When La Fleur told me the Lieutenant de 
Police had been inquiring after me — the thing 
instantly recurred — and by the time La Fleur 
had well told me, the master of the hotel came 
into my room to tell me the same thing, with 
this addition to it, that my passport had been 
particularly ask'd after : the master of the ho- 
tel concluded with saying. He hoped I had one. 
— Not I, faith! said L 

The master of the hotel retired three steps 
from me, as from an infected person, as I de- 
clared this — and poor La Fleur advanced three 
steps towards me, and with that sort of move- 
ment which a good soul makes to succour a dis- 



[126;] 

tress'd one — the fellow won my heart by it; 
and from that single trait, I knew his character 
as perfectly, and could rely upon it as firmly, 
as if he had served me with fidelity for seven 
years. 

Mon seigneur! cried the master of the hotel 
— but recollecting himself as he made the ex- 
clamation, he instantly changed the tone of it. 
— If Monsieur, said he, has not a passport, (^^- 
paremment) in all likelihood he has friends in 
Paris who can procure him one. — Not that I 
know of, quoth I, with an air of indifference. 
— Then, certes, replied he, you '11 be sent to the 
Bastille or the Chatelet, au moins. Poo! said I, 
the king of France is a good-natur'd soul — 
he '11 hurt nobody. — Cela nempeche pas, said 
he — you will certainly be sent to the Bastille 
to-morrow morning. — But I 've taken your 
lodgings for a month, answer'd I, and Til not 
quit them a day before the time for all the 
kings of France in the world. La Fleur whis- 
per'd in my ear, that nobody could oppose the 
king of France. 

Tardi ! said my host, ces (>JMessieurs Anglois 
sontdesgens tres extraordinaires — and having 
both said and sworn it — he went out. 



[;i27:] 



THE PASSPORT 
THE HOTEL AT PARIS 



I COULD not find in my heart to torture La 
Fleur's with a serious look upon the sub- 
ject of my embarrassment, which was the rea- 
son I had treated it so cavaherly ; and to show 
him how hght it lay upon my mind, I dropt the 
subject entirely; and whilst he waited upon me 
at supper, talk'd to him with more than usual 
gaiety about Paris, and of the opera comique. 
— La Fleur had been there himself, and had 
followed me through the streets as far as the 
bookseller's shop; but seeing me come out with 
the young fille de chambre, and that we walked 
down the Quai de Conti together. La Fleur 
deem'd it unnecessary to follow me a step fur- 
ther — so making his own reflections upon it, 
he took a shorter cut — and got to the hotel in 
time to be informed of the affair of the police 
against my arrival. 

As soon as the honest creature had taken 
away, and gone down to sup himself, I then 



[128;] 

began to think a little seriously about my situ- 
ation. — 

— And here, I know, Eugenius, thou wilt 
smile at the remembrance of a short dialogue 
which pass'd betwixt us the moment I was go- 
ing to set out — I must tell it here. 

Eugenius, knowing that I was as little sub- 
ject to be overburdened with money as thought, 
had drawn me aside to interrogate me how 
much I had taken care for ; upon telling him 
the exact sum, Eugenius shook his head, and 
said it would not do ; so pulFd out his purse in 
order to empty it into mine. — I 've enough in 
conscience, Eugenius, said I. — Indeed,Yorick, 
you have not, replied Eugenius. — I know 
France and Italy better than you. — But you 
don't consider, Eugenius, said I, refusing his 
offer, that before I have been three days in 
Paris, I shall take care to say or do something 
or other for which I shall get clapp'd up into 
the Bastille, and that I shall live there a couple 
of months entirely at the king of France's ex- 
pense. — I beg pardon, said Eugenius, dryly: 
really I had forgot that resource. 

Now the event I treated gaily came seri- 
ously to my door. 

Is it folly, or nonchalance, or philosophy. 



[129] 

or pertinacity — or what is it in me, that, after 
all, when La Fleur had gone down-stairs, and 
I was quite alone, I could not bring down my 
mind to think of it otherwise than I had then 
spoken of it to Eugenius ? 

— And as for the Bastille; the terror is in 
the word. — Make the most of it you can, said 
I to myself, the Bastille is but another word for 
a tower — and a tower is but another word for 
a house you can't get out of. — Mercy on the 
gouty! for they are in it twice a year — but with 
nine livres a day, and pen and ink and paper 
and patience, albeit a man can't get out, he may 
do very well within — at least for a month or 
six weeks; at the end of which, if he is a harm- 
less fellow,his innocence appears, and becomes 
out a better and a wiser man than he went in. 

I had some occasion (I forget what) to step 
into the courtyard, as I settled this account; and 
remember I walk'd down-stairs in no small tri- 
umph with the conceit of my reasoning. — Be- 
shrew the sombre pencil ! said I vauntingly — 
for I envy not its powers, which paints the evils 
of life with so hard and deadly a colouring. The 
mind sits terrified at the objects she has mag- 
nified herself, and blackened : reduce them to 
their proper size and hue, she overlooks them. 



[iso:] 

— 'T is true, said I, correcting the proposition 
— the Bastille is not an evil to be despised — 
but strip it of its towers — fill up the fosse — 
unbarricade the doors — call it simply a con- 
finement, and suppose 't is some tyrant of a 
distemper — and not of a man, which holds you 
in it — the evil vanishes, and you bear the other 
half without complaint. 

I was interrupted in the heyday of this solil- 
oquy, with a voice which I took to be of a child, 
which complained ''it could not get out." — I 
looked up and down the passage, and seeing 
neither man, woman, or child, I went out v^th- 
out further attention. 

In my return back through the passage, I 
heard the same words repeated twice over; and 
looking up, I saw it was a starling hung in a 
little cage, — " I can't get out — I can't get out,'' 
said the starling. 

I stood looking at the bird : and to every 
person who came through the passage it ran 
fluttering to the side towards which they ap- 
proached it, with the same lamentation of its 
captivity. — < ' I can't get out,' ' said the starling. 
— God help thee ! said I, but I '11 let thee out, 
cost what it will ; so I turn'd about the cage 
to get to the door ; it was twisted and double 



twisted so fast with wire, there was no getting 
it open without puUing the cage to pieces. — I 
took both hands to it. 

The bird flew to the place where I was at- 
tempting his dehverance, and thrusting his 
head through the trelhs, pressed his breast 
against it, as if impatient. — I fear, poor crea- 
ture ! said I, I cannot set thee at hberty . — 
"No," said the starhng — " I can't get out — 
I can't get out,'' said the starhng. 

I vow I never had my affections more ten- 
derly awakened ; or do I remember an inci- 
dent in my life, where the dissipated spirits, to 
which my reason had been a bubble, were so 
suddenly call'd home. Mechanical as the notes 
were, yet so true in tune to nature were they 
chanted, that in one moment they overthrew 
all my systematic reasonings upon the Bas- 
tille ; and I heavily walk'd up-stairs, unsaying 
every word I had said in going down them. 

Disguise thyself as thou wilt, still, slavery ! 
said I — still thou art a bitter draught ! and 
though thousands in all ages have been made 
to drink of thee, thou art no less bitter on that 
account. — 'T is thou, thrice sweet and gra- 
cious goddess, addressing myself to Liberty, 
whom all in public or in private worship, whose 



taste is grateful, and ever wilt be so, till Na- 
ture herself shall change — no tint of words 
can spot thy snowy mantle, or chymic power 
turn thy sceptre into iron — with thee to smile 
upon him as he eats his crust, the swain is hap- 
pier than his monarch, from whose court thou 
art exiled — Gracious heaven ! cried I, kneel- 
ing down upon the last step but one in my as- 
cent, grant me but health, thou great Bestower 
of it, and give me but this fair goddess as my 
companion — and shower down thy mitres, if 
it seems good unto thy divine providence, upon 
those heads which are aching for them. 



i:i33:i 



THE CAPTIVE 
PARIS 



THE bird in his cage pursued me into my 
room ; I sat down close to my table, and 
leaning my head upon my hand, I begun to 
figure to myself the miseries of confinement. 
I was in a right frame for it, and so I gave full 
scope to my imagination. 

I was going to begin with the millions of my 
fellow-creatures, born to no inheritance but 
slavery : but finding, however affecting the 
picture was, that I could not bring it near me, 
and that the multitude of sad groups in it did 
but distract me — 

— I took a single captive, and having first 
shut him up in his dungeon, I then looked 
through the twilight of his grated door to take 
his picture. 

I beheld his body half wasted away with long 
expectation and confinement, and felt what 
kind of sickness of the heart it was which arises 
from hope deferred. Upon looking nearer I saw 



[134:1 

him pale and feverish : in thirty years the west- 
ern breeze had not once fanned his blood — he 
had seen no sun, no moon, in all that time — nor 
had the voice of friend or kinsman breathed 
through his lattice — his children — 

— But here my heart began to bleed — and 
I was forced to go on with another part of the 
portrait. 

He was sitting upon the ground upon a little 
straw, in the furthest corner of his dungeon, 
which was alternately his chair and bed : a lit- 
tle calendar of small sticks were laid at the 
head, notched all over with the dismal days and 
nights he had pass'd there — he had one of 
these little sticks in his hand, and with a rusty 
nail he was etching another day of misery to 
add to the heap. As I darkened the little light 
he had, he lifted up a hopeless eye towards the 
door, then cast it down — shook his head, and 
went on with his work of affliction. I heard his 
chains upon his legs, as he turned his body to 
lay his little stick upon the bundle. — He gave 
a deep sigh — I saw the iron enter into his soul 
— I burst into tears — I could not sustain the 
picture of confinement which my fancy had 
drawn — I started up from my chair, and call- 
ing La Fleur — I bid him bespeak me a remise, 



and have it ready at the door of the hotel by 
nine in the morning. 

— I '11 go directly, said I, myself to Mon- 
sieur le Due de Choiseul. 

La Fleur would have put me to bed ; but not 
willing he should see anything upon my cheek 
which would cost the honest fellow a heart- 
ache — I told him I would go to bed by myself 
— and bid him go do the same. 



[136] 



THE STARLING 
ROAD TO VERSAILLES 



I GOT into my remise the hour I proposed: 
La Fleur got up behind, and I bid the coach- 
man make the best of his way to Versailles. 

As there was nothing in this road, or rather 
nothing which I look for in traveling, I cannot 
fill up the blank better than with a short his- 
tory of this selfsame bird, which became the 
subject of the last chapter. 

Whilst the Honourable Mr. *** was wait- 
ing for a wind at Dover, it had been caught 
upon the cliffs before it could well fly, by an 
Enghsh lad who was his groom; who not 
caring to destroy it, had taken it in his breast 
into the packet — and by course of feeding it, 
and taking it once under his protection, in a day 
or two grew fond of it, and got it safe along 
with him to Paris. 

At Paris the lad had laid out a livre in a little 
cage for the starling, and as he had little to do 
better the five months his master stay 'd there. 



CIS?:] 

he taught it in his mother's tongue the four 
simple words — (and no more) — to which I 
own'd myself so much its debtor. 

Upon his master's going on for Italy — the 
lad had given it to the master of the hotel. — 
But his little song for liberty being in an un- 
known language at Paris — the bird had little 
or no store set by him — so La Fleur bought 
both him and his cage for me for a bottle of 
Burgundy. 

In my return from Italy I brought him with 
me to the country in whose language he had 
learned his notes — and telling the story of him 

to Lord A , Lord A begg'd the bird of me 

— in a week Lord A gave him to Lord B ; 

Lord B made a present of him to Lord C ; 

and Lord C's gentleman sold him to Lord 
D's for a shilling — Lord D gave him to Lord 

E ,and soon — half round the alphabet. — 

From that rank he pass'd into the lower house, 
and pass'd the hands of as many commoners. 
— But as all these wanted to^^^ in — and my 
bird wanted to get out — he had almost as little 
store set by him in London as in Paris. 

It is impossible but many of my readers 
must have heard of him; and if any by mere 
chance have ever seen him, — I beg leave to 



inform them, that that bird was my bird — or 
some vile copy set up to represent him. 

I have nothing further to add upon him, but 
that from that time to this, I have borne this 
poor starhng as the crest to my arms. — Thus: 




— And let the heralds' officers twist his neck 
about if they dare. 



[139 3 



THE ADDRESS 
VERSAILLES 



I SHOULD not like to have my enemy take 
a view of my mind v^hen I am going to ask 
protection of any man : for v^hich reason I gen- 
erally endeavour to protect myself; but this 
going to Monsieur le Due de C*** was an act 
of compulsion — had it been an act of choice, 
I should have done it, I suppose, like other 
people. 

How many mean plans of dirty address, as I 
went along, did my servile heart form ! I de- 
served the Bastille for every one of them. 

Then nothing would serve me, when I got 
within sight of Versailles, but putting words 
and sentences together, and conceiving atti- 
tudes and tones to wreathe myself into Mon- 
sieur le Due de C***'s good graces. — This 
will do — said I — Just as well, retorted I again, 
as a coat carried up to him by an adventurous 
tailor, without taking his measure. — Fool! con- 
tinued I — see Monsieur le Due's face first — 



[140] 

observe what character is written in it — take 
notice in what posture he stands to hear you — 
mark the turns and expressions of his body and 
hmbs — and for the tone — the first sound which 
comes from his lips will give it you; and from 
all these together you'll compound an address 
at once upon the spot, which cannot disgust 
the Duke — the ingredients are his own, and 
most likely to go down. 

Well! said I, I wish it well over. — Coward 
again ! as if man to man was not equal through- 
out the whole surface of the globe ; and if in 
the field — why not face to face in the cabinet 
too? And trust me, Yorick, whenever it is not 
so, man is false to himself, and betrays his own 
succours ten times where nature does it once. 
Go to the Due de C*** with the Bastille in thy 
looks — my life for it, thou wilt be sent back to 
Paris in half an hour with an escort. 

I believe so, said I. — Then I '11 go to the 
Duke, by Heaven! with all the gaiety and de- 
bonairness in the world. — 

— And there you are wrong again, replied 
I. — A heart at ease, Yorick, flies into no ex- 
tremes — 't is ever on its centre. — Well ! well ! 
cried I, as the coachman turn'd in at the gates 
— I find I shall do very well : and by the time 



[;i40 

he had wheel'd round the court, and brought 
me up to the door, I found myself so much the 
better for my own lecture, that I neither as- 
cended the steps like a victim to justice, who 
was to part with life upon the topmost, — nor 
did I mount them with a skip and a couple of 
strides, as I do when I fly up, Eliza ! to thee, to 
meet it. 

As I entered the door of the saloon, I was met 
by a person who possibly might be the maitre 
d'hotel, but had more the air of one of the un- 
der-secretaries, who told me the Due de C*** 
was busy. — I am utterly ignorant, said I, of the 
forms of obtaining an audience, being an abso- 
lute stranger, and what is worse in the present 
conjuncture of affairs, being an Englishman 
too. — He replied, that did not increase the dif- 
ficulty. — I made him a slight bow, and told 
him, I had something of importance to say to 
Monsieur le Due. The secretary looked to- 
wards the stairs, as if he was about to leave me 
to carry up this account to some one. — But I 
must not mislead you, said I — for what I have 
to say is of no manner of importance to Mon- 
sieur le Due de C*** — but of great impor- 
tance to myself. — Cest une autre affaire, re- 
plied he. — Not at all, said I, to a man of gal- 



[142;] 

lantry. But pray, good Sir, continued I, when 
can a stranger hope to have accessed — In not 
less than two hours, said he, looking at his 
watch. The number of equipages in the court- 
yard seem'd to justify the calculation, that I 
could have no nearer a prospect — and as walk- 
ing backwards and forwards in the saloon, 
without a soul to commune with, was for the 
time as bad as being in the Bastille itself, I in- 
stantly went back to my remise, and bid the 
coachman to drive me to the Cordon Bleu, which 
was the nearest hotel. 

I think there is a fatality in it— I seldom go 
to the place I set out for. 



[143] 



LE PATISSIER 
VERSAILLES 



BEFORE I had got half-way down the 
street I changed my mind : as I am at Ver- 
sailles, thought I, I might as well take a view 
of the town ; so I puU'd the cord, and ordered 
the coachman to drive round some of the prin- 
cipal streets. — I suppose the town is not very 
large, said L — The coachman begg'd pardon 
for setting me right, and told me it was very 
superb, and that numbers of the first dukes 
and marquises and counts had hotels. — The 
Count de B***, of whom the bookseller at the 
Quai de Conti had spoke so handsomely the 
night before, came instantly into my mind. — 
And why should I not go, thought I, to the 
Count de B***, who has so high an idea of 
English books and Englishmen — and tell him 
my story? So I changed my mind a second time 
— in truth it was the third ; for I had intended 
that day for Madame de R*** in the Rue St. 
Pierre, and had devoutly sent her word by her 



fllle dechamhre that I would assuredly wait up- 
on her — but I am governed by circumstances 

— I cannot govern them : so seeing a man 
standing with a basket on the other side of the 
street, as if he had something to sell, I bid La 
Fleur go up to him and inquire for the Count's 
hotel. 

La Fleur returned a little pale : and told me 
it was a Chevalier de St. Louis selling pates. 

— It is impossible. La Fleur, said L — La 
Fleur could no more account for the phe- 
nomenon than myself; but persisted in his 
story : he had seen the croix set in gold, with 
its red ribband, he said, tied to his buttonhole 
— and had looked into the basket and seen the 
pates which the Chevalier was selling; so could 
not be mistaken in that. 

Such a reverse in man's life awakens a bet- 
ter principle than curiosity: I could not help 
looking for some time at him as I sat in the re- 
mise — the more I look'd at him, his croix, and 
his basket, the stronger they wove themselves 
into my brain. I got out of the remise, and went 
towards him. 

He was begirt with a clean linen apron, 
which fell below his knees, and with a sort of 
a bib that went half-way up his breast ; upon 



[145] 

the top of this, but a little below the hem, hung 
his croix. His basket of little ^^^^'5 was covered 
over with a white damask napkin : another 
of the same kind was spread at the bottom; 
and there was a look oi proprete and neatness 
throughout, that one might have bought his 
pates of him, as much from appetite as senti- 
ment. 

He made an offer of them to neither ; but 
stood still with them at the corner of a hotel, 
for those to buy who chose it, without solicita- 
tion. 

He was about forty-eight — of a sedate look, 
something approaching to gravity. I did not 
wonder. — I went up rather to the basket than 
him, and having lifted up the napkin, and taken 
one of his pates into my hand — I begg'd he 
would explain the appearance which affected 
me. 

He told me in a few words, that the best 
part of his life had passed in the service, in 
which, after spending a small patrimony, he 
had obtained a company and the croix with it ; 
but that, at the conclusion of the last peace, his 
regiment being reformed, and the whole corps, 
with those of some other regiments, left with- 
out any provision — he found himself in a wide 



world without friends, without a Hvre — and 
indeed, said he, without anything but this — 
(pointing, as he said it, to his croix). — The 
poor chevalier won my pity, and he finished the 
scene with winning my esteem too. 

The king, he said, was the most generous 
of princes, but his generosity could neither re- 
lieve or reward every one, and it was only his 
misfortune to be amongst the number. He had 
a little wife, he said, whom he loved, who did 
the patisserie ; and added, he felt no dishonour 
in defending her and himself from want in this 
way — unless Providence had offer'd him a 
better. 

It would be wicked to withhold a pleasure 
from the good, in passing over what happened 
to this poor Chevalier of St. Louis about nine 
months after. 

It seems he usually took his stand near the 
iron gates which lead up to the palace, and as 
his croix had caught the eye of numbers, num- 
bers had made the same inquiry which I had 
done. — He had told the same story, and al- 
ways with so much modesty and good sense, 
that it had reached at last the king's ears — who 
hearing the chevalier had been a gallant offi- 
cer, and respected by the whole regiment as 



[147;] 

a man of honour and integrity — he broke up 
his Httle trade by a pension of fifteen hundred 
livres a year. 

As I have told this to please the reader, I 
beg he will allow me to relate another, out of 
its order, to please myself — the two stories re- 
flect light upon each other — and 't is a pity 
they should be parted. 



[148;] 



THE SWORD 
RENNES 



WHEN states and empires have their 
periods of declension, and feel in their 
turns what distress and poverty is — I stop not 
to tell the causes which gradually brought 
the house d'E*** in Brittany into decay. The 
Marquis d'E*** had fought up against his 
condition with great firmness ; wishing to pre- 
serve, and still show to the world some little 
fragments of what his ancestors had been — 
their indiscretions had put it out of his power. 
There was enough left for the little exigencies 
of obscurity — but he had two boys who look'd 
up to him for light — he thought they deserved 
it. He had tried his sword — it could not open 
the way — the mounting was too expensive — 
and simple economy was not a match for it — 
there was no resource but commerce. 

In any other province in France, save Brit- 
tany, this was smiting the root forever of the 
little tree his pride and affection wish'd to see 



reblossom — But in Brittany, there being a 
provision for this, he availed himself of it; and 
taking an occasion when the states were assem- 
bled at Rennes, the Marquis, attended with his 
two boys, enter 'd the court; and having pleaded 
the right of an ancient law of the duchy, which, 
though seldom claim'd, he said, was no less in 
force, he took his sword from his side — Here 
— said he — take it; and be trusty guardians 
of it, till better times put me in condition to re- 
claim it. 

The president accepted the Marquis's sword 
— he stay 'd a few minutes to see it deposited in 
the archives of his house — and departed. 

The Marquis and his whole family em- 
barked the next day for Martinico, and in 
about nineteen or twenty years of successful 
application to business, with some unlook'd-for 
bequests from distant branches of his house — 
returned home to reclaim his nobility and to 
support it. 

It was an incident of good fortune which will 
never happen to any traveler, but a sentimen- 
tal one, that I should be at Rennes at the very 
time of this solemn requisition: I call it solemn 
— it was so to me. 

The Marquis entered the court with his 



whole family: he supported his lady — his eld- 
est son supported his sister, and his youngest 
was at the other extreme of the line next his 
mother — he put his handkerchief to his face 
twice — 

— There was a dead silence. When the Mar- 
quis had approached within six paces of the tri- 
bunal, he gave the Marchioness to his youngest 
son, and advancing three steps before his fam- 
ily — he reclaimed his sword. His sword was 
given him, and the moment he got it into his 
hand, he drew it almost out of the scabbard — 
't was the shining face of a friend he had once 
given up — he look'd attentively along it, be- 
ginning at the hilt, as if to see whether it was 
the same — when observing a little rust which 
it had contracted near the point, he brought it 
near his eye, and bending his head down over 
it — I think I saw a tear fall upon the place : I 
could not be deceived by what followed. 

*' I shall find," said he, " some other way to 
get it off.'' 

When the Marquis had said this, he returned 
his sword into its scabbard, made a bow to the 
guardians of it — and with his wife and daugh- 
ter, and his two sons following him, walk'd out. 

O how I envied him his feelings ! 



THE PASSPORT 
VERSAILLES 

I FOUND no difficulty in getting admit- 
tance to Monsieur le Count de B***. The 
set of Shakespeares was laid upon the table, 
and he was tumbling them over. I walk'd up 
close to the table, and giving first such a look 
at the books as to make him conceive I knew 
what they were — I told him I had come with- 
out any one to present me, knowing I should 
meet with a friend in his apartment, who, I 
trusted, would do it for me — it is my country- 
man the great Shakespeare, said I, pointing to 
his works — et ayez la bonte, mon cher amiy apo- 
strophizing his spirit, added I, de me f aire cet 
honneur-la. — 

The Count smil'd at the singularity of the 
introduction; and seeing I look'd a little pale 
and sickly, insisted upon my taking an arm- 
chair; so I sat down; and to save him conjec- 
tures upon a visit so out of all rule, I told him 
simply of the incident in the bookseller's shop, 
and how that had impelPd me rather to go to 



him with the story of a httle embarrassment I 
was under, than to any other man in France. 
— And what is your embarrassment? let me 
hear it, said the Count. So I told him the story 
just as I have told it the reader. — 

— And the master of my hotel, said I, as I 
concluded it, will needs have it. Monsieur le 
Count, that I should be sent to the Bastille — 
but I have no apprehensions, continued I — 
for in falling into the hands of the most pol- 
ished people in the world, and being conscious 
I was a true man, and not come to spy the na- 
kedness of the land, I scarce thought I laid at 
their mercy. — It does not suit the gallantry of 
the French, Monsieur le Count, said I, to show 
it against invalids. 

An animated blush came into the Count de 
B***'s cheeks as I spoke this. — JV> craignez 
rien — don't fear, said he. — Indeed I don't, re- 
plied I again. — Besides, continued I a little 
sportingly — I have come laughing all the way 
from London to Paris, and I do not think Mon- 
sieur le Due de Choiseul is such an enemy to 
mirth, as to send me back crying for my pains. 
— My application to you. Monsieur le Comte 
de B*** (making him a low bow), is to de- 
sire he will not. 



The Count heard me with great good na- 
ture, or I had not said half as much — and once 
or twice said — Cest Men dit. So I rested my 
cause there — and determined to say no more 
about it. 

The Count led the discourse: we talk'd of 
indifferent things — of books, and politics, and 
men — and then of women. — God bless them 
all! said I, after much discourse about them — 
there is not a man upon earth who loves them 
so much as I do: after all the foibles I have 
seen, and all the satires I have read against 
them, still I love them ; being firmly persuaded 
that a man, who has not a sort of an affection 
for the whole sex, is incapable of ever loving 
a single one as he ought. 

Heh hien ! (JMonsieur V^^nglois, said the 
Count, gaily — you are not come to spy the 
nakedness of the land — I believe you — ni en- 
core, I dare say that of our women. — But per- 
mit me to conjecture — if,^^r hazard, they fell 
in your way — that the prospect would not 
affect you. 

I have something within me which cannot 
bear the shock of the least indecent insinua- 
tion : in the sportability of chit-chat I have often 
endeavoured to conquer it, and with infinite 



pain have hazarded a thousand things to a 
dozen of the sex together — the least of which 
I could not venture to a single one to gain hea- 
ven. 

Excuse me. Monsieur le Count, said I — as 
for the nakedness of your land, if I saw it, I 
should cast my eyes over it with tears in them 
— and for that of your women ( blushing at the 
idea he had excited in me), I am so evangeli- 
cal in this, and have such a fellow-feeling for 
whatever is weak about them, that I would 
cover it with a garment, if I knew how to throw 
it on. — But I could wish, continued I, to spy 
the nakedness of their hearts, and through the 
different disguises of customs, climates, and re- 
ligion, find out what is good in them to fashion 
my own by — and therefore am I come. 

It is for this reason. Monsieur le Comte, 
continued I, that I have not seen the Palais 
Royal — nor the Luxembourg — nor the Fa- 
cade of the Louvre — nor have attempted to 
swell the catalogues we have of pictures, sta- 
tues, and churches — I conceive every fair be- 
ing as a temple, and would rather enter in, and 
see the original drawings, and loose sketches 
hung up in it, than the transfiguration of Ra- 
phael itself. 



The thirst of this, continued I, as impatient 
as that which inflames the breast of the con- 
noisseur, has led me from my own home into 
France — and from France will lead me through 
Italy — 't is a quiet journey of the heart in pur- 
suit of Nature, and those affections which rise 
out of her, which make us love each other — 
and the world, better than we do. 

The Count said a great many civil things 
to me upon the occasion; and added, very po- 
litely, how much he stood obliged to Shake- 
speare for making me known to him. — But, a 
propos, said he, — Shakespeare is full of great 
things — he forgot a small punctilio of an- 
nouncing your name — it puts you under a 
necessity of doing it yourself. 



[156] 

THE PASSPORT 
VERSAILLES 

THERE is not a more perplexing affair in 
life to me, than to set about telling any 
one who I am — for there is scarce anybody I 
cannot give a better account of than of myself; 
and I have often wish'd I could do it in a single 
word — and have an end of it. It was the only 
time and occasion in my life I could accom- 
plish this to any purpose — for Shakespeare ly- 
ing upon the table, and recollecting I was in his 
books, I took up Hamlet, and turning imme- 
diately to the grave-diggers scene in the fifth 
act, I laid my finger upon Yorick, and advan- 
cing the book to the Count, with my finger all 
the way over the name — d^e void ! said I. 
Now whether the idea of poor Yorick's 
skull was put out of the Count's mind by the 
reality of my own, or by what magic he could 
drop a period of seven or eight hundred years, 
makes nothing in this account — 'tis certain 
the French conceive better than they combine 
— I wonder at nothing in this world, and the 
less at this ; inasmuch as one of the first of our 



own church, for whose candour and paternal 
sentiments I have the highest veneration, fell 
into the same mistake in the very same case. 
— '< He could not bear/' he said, "to look into 
sermons wrote by the king of Denmark's jes- 
ter/' — Good my lord ! said I, but there are two 
Yoricks. The Yorick your lordship thinks of 
has been dead and buried eight hundred years 
ago; he flourished in Horwendillus's court — 
the other Yorick is myself, who have flourished, 
my lord, in no court. — He shook his head. 
— Good God ! said I, you might as well con- 
found Alexander the Great with Alexander 
the Coppersmith, my lord — 'Twas all one, he 
replied. — 

— If Alexander king of Macedon could have 
translated your lordship, said I — I 'm sure 
your lordship would not have said so. 

The poor Count de B*** fell but into the 
same error — 

— Et, (JMonsieur, est il Torick? cried the 
Count. — Je le suis, said I. — Vous ? — (*yidoi — 
moi qui ai Vhonneur de vous purler, (JMonsieur 
le Comte, — ^JMon T>ieu! said he, embracing 
me — Vous etes Torick ! 

The Count instantly put the Shakespeare 
into his pocket — and left me alone in his room. 



Ci5s:\ 



THE PASSPORT 
VERSAILLES 



I COULD not conceive why the Count de 
B*** had gone so abruptly out of the 
room, any more than I could conceive why he 
had put the Shakespeare into his pocket. — 
(^jMysteries which must explain themselves are 
not worth the loss of time which a conjecture about 
them takes up: 'twas better to read Shakespeare; 
so taking up ^'^JMuch Ado About Mothing/' I 
transported myself instantly from the chair I 
sat in to Messina in Sicily, and got so busy with 
Don Pedro and Benedick and Beatrice, that 
I thought not of Versailles, the Count, or the 
Passport. 

Sweet pliability of man's spirit, that can at 
once surrender itself to illusions, which cheat 
expectation and sorrow of their weary mo- 
ments ! — long — long since had ye numbered 
out my days, had I not trod so great a part of 
them upon this enchanted ground ; when my 
way is too rough for my feet, or too steep for 



[159] 

my strength, I get off it, to some smooth velvet 
path which fancy has scattered over with rose- 
buds of dehghts ; and having taken a few turns 
in it, come back strengthened and refresh'd. 
— When evils press sore upon me, and there 
is no retreat from them in this world, then I 
take a new course — I leave it — and as I have 
a clearer idea of the elysian fields than I have 
of heaven, I force myself, like i^neas, into 
them — I see him meet the pensive shade of 
his forsaken Dido — and wish to recognize it 
— I see the injured spirit wave her head, and 
turn off silent from the author of her miseries 
and dishonours — I lose the feelings for myself 
in hers — and in those affections which were 
wont to make me mourn for her when I was at 
school. 

Surely this is not walking in a vain shadow 
— nor does man disquiet himself in vain by it — 
he oftener does so in trusting the issue of his 
commotions to reason only. — I can safely say 
for myself, I was never able to conquer any 
one single bad sensation in my heart so deci- 
sively, as by beating up as fast as I could for 
some kindly and gentle sensation to fight it 
upon its own ground. 

When I had got to the end of the third act, 



ii6o:\ 

the Count de B*** entered with my Passport 
in his hand. Monsieur le Due de C***, said 
the Count, is as good a prophet, I dare say, 
as he is a statesman — Un homme qui rit, said 
the duke, ne sera jamais dangereux, — Had it 
been for any one but the king's jester, added 
the Count, I could not have got it these two 
hours. — *Tardonnez moi. Monsieur le Comte, 
said I — I am not the king's jester. — But you 
are Yorick? — Yes. — Et vous plaisantez? — I 
answered. Indeed I did jest — but was not paid 
for it — 'twas entirely at my own expense. 

We have no jester at court. Monsieur le 
Comte, said I ; the last we had was in the li- 
centious reign of Charles the lid — since which 
time our manners have been so gradually re- 
fining, that our court at present is so full of 
patriots, who wish for nothing but the honours 
and wealth of their country — and our ladies 
are all so chaste, so spotless, so good, so de- 
vout — there is nothing for a jester to make a 
jest of — 

Voila un persiflage ! cried the Count. 



C^^i] 



THE PASSPORT 
VERSAILLES 



AS the Passport was directed to all lieu- 
tenant-governors, governors, and com- 
mandants of cities, generals of armies, jus- 
ticiaries, and all officers of justice, to let Mr. 
Yorick the king's jester, and his baggage, 
travel quietly along — I ov^n the triumph of 
obtaining the Passport was not a little tarnished 
by the figure I cut in it. — But there is nothing 
unmixt in this world; and some of the gravest 
of our divines have carried it so far as to affirm, 
that enjoyment itself was attended even with 
a sigh — and that the greatest they knew of ter- 
minated in a general way, in little better than a 
convulsion. 

I remembered the grave and learned Bevo- 
riskius, in his commentary upon the genera- 
tions from Adam, very naturally breaks off in 
the middle of a note to give an account to the 
world of a couple of sparrows upon the out- 
edge of his window, which had incommoded 



him all the time he wrote, and at last had en- 
tirely taken him off from his genealogy. 

— 'Tis strange ! writes Bevoriskius, but the 
facts are certain, for I have had the curiosity to 
mark them down one by one with my pen — 
but the cock-sparrow, during the little time 
that I could have finished the other half this 
note, has actually interrupted me with the re- 
iteration of his caresses three and twenty times 
and a half. 

How merciful, adds Bevoriskius, is heaven 
to his creatures ! 

Ill-fated Yorick ! that the gravest of thy 
brethren should be able to write that to the 
world, which stains thy face with crimson, to 
copy in even thy study. 

But this is nothing to my travels. — So I 
twice — twice beg pardon for it. 



[163] 



CHARACTER 
VERSAILLES 



AND how do you find the French? said 
the Count de B***, after he had given 
me the Passport. 

The reader may suppose, that after so obli- 
ging a proof of courtesy, I could not be at a loss 
to say something handsome to the inquiry. 

— (^JMais passe, pour cela — Speak frankly, 
said he : do you find all the urbanity in the 
French which the world give us the honour 
of? — I had found everything, I said, which 
confirmed it. — Vraiment, said the Count. — Les 
Francois sont polls. — To an excess, replied L 

The Count took notice of the word excesse ; 
and would have it I meant more than I said. I 
defended myself a long time as well as I could 
against it — he insisted I had a reserve, and that 
I would speak my opinion frankly. 

I believe, Monsieur le Comte, said I, that 
man has a certain compass, as well as an in- 
strument : and that the social and other calls 



have occasion by turns for every key in him ; 
so that if you begin a note too high or too low, 
there must be a want either in the upper or 
under part, to fill up the system of harmony. 
— The Count de B*** did not understand mu- 
sic, so desired me to explain it some other 
way. A polish'd nation, my dear Count, said I, 
makes every one its debtor ; and besides, ur- 
banity itself, like the fair sex, has so many 
charms, it goes against the heart to say it can 
do ill ; and yet, I believe, there is but a certain 
line of perfection, that man, take him alto- 
gether, is empowered to arrive at — if he gets 
beyond, he rather exchanges qualities than 
gets them. I must not presume to say, how far 
this has affected the French in the subject we 
are speaking of — but should it ever be the 
case of the English, in the progress of their re- 
finements, to arrive at the same polish which 
distinguishes the French, if we did not lose the 
politesse du cceur, which inclines men more 
to human actions, than courteous ones — we 
should at least lose that distinct variety and 
originality of character, which distinguishes 
them, not only from each other, but from all 
the world besides. 

I had a few of King William's shillings as 



smooth as glass in my pocket ; and foreseeing 
they would be of use in the illustration of my 
hypothesis, I had got them into my hand, 
when I had proceeded so far. — 

See, Monsieur le Comte, said I, rising up, 
and laying them before him upon the table — 
by jingling and rubbing one against another 
for seventy years together in one body's pocket 
or another's, they are become so much alike, 
you can scarce distinguish one shilling from 
another. 

The English, like ancient medals, kept more 
apart, and passing but few people's hands, pre- 
serve the first sharpnesses which the fine hand 
of nature has given them — they are not so 
pleasant to feel — but, in return, the legend is 
so visible, that at the first look you see whose 
image and superscription they bear. — But the 
French, Monsieur le Comte, added I, wishing 
to soften what I had said, have so many ex- 
cellences, they can the better spare this — 
they are a loyal, a gallant, a generous, an inge- 
nious, and good-temper'd people as is under 
heaven — if they have a fault — they are too 
serious, 

dJMon *Dieu ! cried the Count, rising out of 
his chair. 



<iJMais vous plaisantez, said he, correcting 
his exclamation. — I laid my hand upon my 
breast, and with earnest gravity assured him 
it was my most settled opinion. 

The Count said he was mortified he could 
not stay to hear my reasons, being engaged 
to go that moment to dine with the Due de 

But if it is not too far to come to Versailles 
to eat your soup with me, I beg, before you 
leave France, I may have the pleasure of 
knowing you retract your opinion — or, in 
what manner you support it. — But if you do 
support it. Monsieur Anglois, said he, you 
must do it with all your powers, because you 
have the whole world against you. — I pro- 
mised the Count I would do myself the honour 
of dining with him before I set out for Italy — 
so took my leave. 



THE TEMPTATION 
PARIS 



WHEN I alighted at the hotel, the porter 
told me a young woman with a band- 
box had been that moment inquiring for me. 
— I do not know, said the porter, whether she 
is gone away or no. I took the key of my cham- 
ber of him, and went up-stairs ; and when I 
had got within ten steps of the top of the land- 
ing before my door, I met her coming easily 
down. 

It was the fairjille de chambre I had walked 
along the Quai de Conti with: Madame de 
R*** had sent her upon some commissions 
to a marchande des modes within a step or two 
of the Hotel de Modene ; and as I had fail'd in 
waiting upon her, had bid her inquire if I had 
left Paris ; and if so, whether I had not left a 
letter addressed to her. 

As the f^ir Jille de chambre was so near my 
door, she turned back, and went into the room 
with me for a moment or two whilst I wrote a 
card. 



[168] 

It was a fine still evening in the latter end 
of the month of May — the crimson window- 
curtains (which were of the same colour of 
those of the bed) were drawn close — the sun 
was setting, and reflected through them so 
warm a tint into the fairjille de chamhre's face 
— I thought she blush'd — the idea of it made 
me blush myself — we were quite alone ; and 
that superinduced a second blush before the 
first could get off. 

There is a sort of a pleasing half guilty 
blush, where the blood is more in fault than 
the man — 'tis sent impetuous from the heart, 
and virtue flies after it — not to call it back, 
but to make the sensation of it more delicious 
to the nerves — 't is associated. — 

But I '11 not describe it. — I felt something 
at first within me which was not in strict uni- 
son with the lesson of virtue I had given her 
the night before. — I sought five minutes for 
a card — I knew I had not one. — I took up a 
pen — I laid it down again — my hand trem- 
bled — the devil was in me. 

I know as well as any one he is an adver- 
sary, whom if we resist he will fly from us — 
but I seldom resist him at all ; from a terror 
that though I may conquer, I may still get a 



hurt in the combat — so I give up the triumph 
for security; and instead of thinking to make 
him fly, I generally fly myself. 

The fair Jllle de chamhre come close up to 
the bureau where I was looking for a card — 
took up first the pen I cast down, then offered 
to hold me the ink ; she offered it so sweetly, 
I was going to accept it — but I durst not. — I 
have nothing, my dear, said I, to write upon. 
— Write it, said she, simply, upon anything. 

I was just going to cry out, Then I will 
write it, fair girl ! upon thy lips. 

If I do, said I, I shall perish — so I took her 
by the hand, and led her to the door, and 
begg'd she would not forget the lesson I had 
given her. — She said,indeed she would not — 
and as she utter'd it with some earnestness, 
she turn'd about, and gave me both her hands, 
closed together, into mine — it was impossible 
not to compress them in that situation — I 
wish'd to let them go ; and all the time I held 
them, I kept arguing within myself against it 
— and still I held them on. — In two minutes 
I found I had all the battle to fight over again 
— and I felt my legs and every limb about me 
tremble at the idea. 

The foot of the bed was within a yard and a 



[170] 

half of the place where we were standing — I 
had still hold of her hands — and how it hap- 
pened I can give no account, but I neither 
ask'd her — nor drew her — nor did I think of 
the bed — but so it did happen, we both sat 
down. 

1 11 just show you, said the Mrjllle de cham- 
bre, the little purse I have been making to-day 
to hold your crown. So she put her hand into 
her right pocket, which was next me, and felt 
for it some time — then into the left — " She 
had lost it.'' — I never bore expectation more 
quietly — it was in her right pocket at last — 
she pull'd it out ; it was of green taffeta, lined 
with a little bit of white quilted satin, and just 
big enough to hold the crown — she put it into 
my hand; — it was pretty; and I held it ten 
minutes with the back of my hand resting 
upon her lap — looking sometimes at the purse, 
sometimes on one side of it. 

A stitch or two had broke out in the gathers 
of my stock — the izxYJille de chamhre, without 
saying a word, took out her little hussive, 
threaded a small needle, and sew'd it up. — I 
foresaw it would hazard the glory of the day; 
and as she pass'd her hand in silence across and 
across my neck in the manoeuvre, I felt the 



[171;] 

laurels shake which fancy had wreath 'd about 
my head. 

A strap had given way in her walk, and the 
buckle of her shoe was just falling off. — See, 
said Xhefille de chamhre, holding up her foot. 
— I could not for my soul but fasten the buckle 
in return, and putting in the strap — and lifting 
up the other foot with it, when I had done, to 
see both were right — in doing it too suddenly 
— it unavoidably threw the fairfille de cham- 
hre off her centre — and then — 



[;i72] 



THE CONQUEST 



YES — and then — Ye whose clay-cold 
heads and lukewarm hearts can argue 
down or mask your passions — tell me, what 
trespass is it that man should have them? or 
how his spirit stands answerable to the Father 
of spirits but for his conduct under them. 

If Nature has so wove her web of kindness 
that some threads of love and desire are entan- 
gled with the piece — must the whole web be 
rent in drawing them out ? — Whip me such 
stoics, great Governor of nature ! said I to my- 
self. — Wherever thy providence shall place 
me for the trials of my virtue — whatever is 
my danger — whatever is my situation — let 
me feel the movements which rise out of it, 
and which belong to me as a man — and if I 
govern them as a good one — I will trust the 
issues to thy justice : for thou hast made us — 
and not we ourselves. 

As I finished my address, I raised the fair 
fille de chamhre up by the hand, and led her out 
of the room — she stood by me till I lock'd the 



[173 3 

door and put the key in my pocket — and then 
— the victory being quite decisive — and not 
till then, I pressed my lips to her cheek, and 
taking her by the hand again, led her safe to 
the gate of the hotel. 



[174] 



THE MYSTERY 
PARIS 



IF a man knows the heart, he will know it 
was impossible to go back instantly to my 
chamber — it was touching a cold key with a 
flat third to it, upon the close of a piece of mu- 
sic, which had calPd forth my affections — 
therefore when I let go the hand of the Jllle de 
chamhre, I remained at the gate of the hotel for 
some time, looking at every one who passed 
by, and forming conjectures upon them, till my 
attention got fix'd upon a single object which 
confounded all kind of reasoning upon him. 

It was a tall figure of a philosophic, serious, 
adust look, which pass'd and repassed sedately 
along the street, making a turn of about sixty 
paces on each side of the gate of the hotel — 
the man was about fifty-two — had a small 
cane under his arm — was dress 'd in a dark 
drab-colour' d coat, waist-coat, and breeches, 
which seem'd to have seen some years' service 
— they were still clean, and there was a little 



air of frugal proprete throughout him. By his 
puUingoff his hat, and his attitude of accosting 
a good many in his way, I saw he was asking 
charity ; so I got a sou or two out of my pocket 
ready to give him, as he took me in his turn 
— he passM by me without asking anything — 
and yet did not go five steps further before he 
ask'd charity of a Httle woman — I was much 
more hkely to have given of the two. — He had 
scarce done with the woman, when he pulFd 
ofFhis hat to another who was coming the same 
way. — An ancient gentleman came slowly — 
and, after him, a young smart one. — He let 
them both pass, and ask*d nothing: I stood ob- 
serving him half an hour, in which time he had 
made a dozen turns backwards and forwards, 
and found that he invariably pursued the same 
plan. 

There were two things very singular in this, 
which set my brain to work, and to no purpose 
— the first was, why the man should only tell 
his story to the sex — and secondly — what 
kind of story it was, and what species of elo- 
quence it could be, which soften'd the hearts 
of the women, which he knew 'twas to no pur- 
pose to practise upon the men. 

There were two other circumstances which 



[176:1 

entangled this mystery — the one was, he told 
every woman what he had to say in her ear, 
and in a way which had much more the air of 
a secret than a petition — the other was, it was 
always successful — he never stopp'd a wo- 
man, but she puird out her purse, and imme- 
diately gave him something. 

I could form no system to explain the phe- 
nomenon. 

I had got a riddle to amuse me for the rest 
of the evening, so I walk'd up-stairs to my 
chamber. 



C177 3 



THE CASE OF CONSCIENCE 
PARIS 



I WAS immediately followed up by the mas- 
ter of the hotel, who came into my room to 
tell me I must provide lodgings elsewhere. — 
How so, friend? said I. — He answer'd, I had 
had a young woman lock'd up with me two 
hours that evening in my bedchamber, and 
't was against the rules of his house. — Very 
well, said I, we 11 all part friends then — for 
the girl is no worse — and I am no worse — 
and you will be just as I found you. — It was 
enough, he said, to overthrow the credit of his 
hotel. — Voyez vous, (^SMonsieur, said he, point- 
ing to the foot of the bed we had been sitting 
upon. — I own it had something of the appear- 
ance of an evidence ; but my pride not suffer- 
ing me to enter into any detail of the case, I 
exhorted him to let his soul sleep in peace, as 
I resolved to let mine do that night, and that I 
would discharge what I owed him at breakfast. 
I should not have minded, (^JMonsieur, said 



he, if you had had twenty girls — 'Tis a score 
more, rephed I, interrupting him, than I ever 
reckoned upon — Provided, added he, it had 
been but in a morning. — And does the differ- 
ence of the time of the day at Paris make a dif- 
ference in the sin? — It made a difference, he 
said, in the scandal. — I like a good distinction 
in my heart ; and cannot say I was intolerably 
out of temper with the man. — I own it is neces- 
sary, reassumed the master of the hotel, that 
a stranger at Paris should have the opportuni- 
ties presented to him of buying lace and silk 
stockings, and ruffles, et tout cela — and 'tis 
nothing if a woman comes with a band-box. — 
O* my conscience, said I, she had one ; but I 
never looked into it. — Then Monsieur, said he, 
has bought nothing. — Not one earthly thing, 
replied I. — Because, said he, I could recom- 
mend one to you who would use you en con- 
science, — But I must see her this night, said I. 
— He made me a low bow, and walk'd down. 
Now shall I triumph over this maitred' hotel, 
cried I — and what then ? — Then I shall let 
him see I know he is a dirty fellow. — And 
what then? — What then ! — I was too near 
myself to say it was for the sake of others. — 
I had no good answer left — there was more of 



spleen than principle in my project, and I was 
sick of it before the execution. 

In a few minutes the Grisset came in with 
her box of lace — 1 11 buy nothing, however, 
said I, within myself. 

The Grisset would show me everything. — I 
was hard to please : she would not seem to see it ; 
she open'd her little magazine, and laid all her 
laces one after another before me — unfolded 
and folded them up again one by one with the 
most patient sweetness — I might buy — or 
not — she would let me have everything at my 
own price — the poor creature seem'd anxious 
to get a penny; and laid herself out to win me, 
and not so much in a manner which seem'd 
artful, as in one I felt simple and caressing. 

If there is not a fund of honest cullibility in 
man, so much the worse — my heart relented, 
and I gave up my second resolution as quietly 
as the first. — Why should I chastise one for 
the trespass of another? If thou art tributary 
to this tyrant of an host, thought I, looking up 
in her face, so much harder is thy bread. 

If I had not had more than four Louis d'ors 
in my purse, there was no such thing as rising 
up and showing her the door, till I had first 
laid three of them out in a pair of ruffles. 



[ISO] 

— The master of the hotel will share the 
profit with her — no matter — then I have only- 
paid as many a poor soul has paid before me, 
for an act he could not do, or think of. 



Cl80 



THE RIDDLE 
PARIS 



WHEN La Fleur came up to wait upon 
me at supper, he told me how sorry 
the master of the hotel was for his affront to me 
in bidding me change my lodgings. 

A man who values a good night's rest will 
not lay down with enmity in his heart, if he can 
help it — so I bid La Fleur tell the master of 
the hotel, that I was sorry on my side for the 
occasion I had given him — and you may tell 
him, if you will. La Fleur, added I, that if the 
young woman should call again, I shall not see 
her. 

This w^as a sacrifice not to him, but myself, 
having resolved, after so narrow an escape, to 
run no more risks, but to leave Paris, if it was 
possible, with all the virtue I entered in. 

C'est deroger a noblesse, (JMonsieur, said La 
Fleur, making me a bow down to the ground 
as he said it. — Et encore, ^^onsieur, said he, 
may change his sentiments — and if [par ha- 



[182;] 

zard) he should hke to amuse himself — I find 
no amusement in it, said I, interrupting him — 

Mon Dieu ! said La Fleur — and took away. 

In an hour's time he came to put me to 
bed, and was more than commonly officious — 
something hung upon his lips to say to me, or 
ask me, which he could not get off: I could not 
conceive what it was, and indeed gave myself 
little trouble to find it out, as I had another rid- 
dle so much more interesting upon my mind, 
which was that of the man's asking charity 
before the door of the hotel — I would have 
given anything to have got to the bottom of it; 
and that, not out of curiosity — 't is so low a 
principle of inquiry, in general, I would not 
purchase the gratification of it with a two-sou 
piece — but a secret, I thought, which so soon 
and so certainly soften 'd the heart of every wo- 
man you came near, was a secret at least equal 
to the philosopher's stone : had I had both the 
Indies, I would have given up one to have been 
master of it. 

I toss'd and turn'd it almost all night long in 
my brains to no manner of purpose ; and when 
I awoke in the morning, I found my spirit as 
much troubled with my dreams, as ever the 
king of Babylon had been with his ; and I will 



not hesitate to affirm, it would have puzzled 
all the wise men of Paris as much as those of 
Chaldea, to have given its interpretation. 



[184 3 



LE DIMANCHE 
PARIS 



IT was Sunday ; and when La Fleur came 
in, in the morning, with my coffee and roll 
and butter, he had got himself so gallantly ar- 
ray'd, I scarce knew him. 

I had covenanted at Montriul to give him a 
new hat with a silver button and loop, and four 
Louis d'ors pour s'adonisery when we got to 
Paris ; and the poor fellow, to do him justice, 
had done wonders with it. 

He had bought a bright, clean, good scarlet 
coat, and a pair of breeches of the same. — 
They were not a crown worse, he said, for the 
wearing — I wish'd him hang'd for telhng me 
— they look'd so fresh, that tho' I knew the 
thing could not be done, yet I would rather 
have imposed upon my fancy with thinking I 
had bought them new for the fellow, than that 
they had come out of the Rue de Friperie, 

This is a nicety which makes not the heart 
sore at Paris. 



He had purchased moreover a handsome 
blue satin waistcoat,fancifully enough embroid- 
ered — this was indeed something the worse 
for the service it had done, but 'twas clean 
scour 'd — the gold had been touch'd up, and 
upon the whole was rather showy than other- 
wise — and as the blue was not violent, it suited 
with the coat and breeches very well : he had 
squeezed out of the money, moreover, a new 
bag and a solitaire ; and had insisted with the 
fripier upon a gold pair of garters to his 
breeches knees. — He had purchased muslin 
ruffles hien hrodees, with four livres of his own 
money — and a pair of white silk stockings for 
five more — and, to top all, nature had given 
him a handsome figure, without costing him a 
sou. 

He entered the room thus set off, with his 
hair dressed in the first style, and with a hand- 
some bouquet in his breast — in a word, there 
was that look of festivity in everything about 
him, which at once put me in mind it was Sun- 
day — and by combining both together, it in- 
stantly struck me, that the favour he wish'd to 
ask of me the night before, was to spend the 
day as everybody in Paris spent it besides. I 
had scarce made the conjecture, when La 



Fleur, with infinite humility, but with a look 
of trust, as if I should not refuse him, begg'd I 
would grant him the day, pour faire le galant 
vis-a-vis de sa maitresse. 

Now it was the very thing I intended to do 
T[\yse[ivis-d.-vis Madame de R***. — I had re- 
tained the remise on purpose for it, and it would 
not have mortified my vanity to have had a ser- 
vant so well dress'd as La Fleur was, to have 
got up behind it : I never could have worse 
spared him. 

But we must feel^ not argue, in these em- 
barrassments — the sons and daughters of ser- 
vice part with liberty, but not with Nature, in 
their contracts ; they are flesh and blood, and 
have their little vanities and wishes in the 
midst of the house of bondage, as well as their 
taskmasters — no doubt they have set their 
self-denials at a price — and their expectations 
are so unreasonable, that I would often disap- 
point them, but that their condition puts it so 
much in my power to do it. 

Behold! — Behold^ I am thy servant — dis- 
arms me at once of the powers of a master. — 

— Thou shalt go, La Fleur! said L 

— And what mistress. La Fleur, said I, canst 
thou have pick'd up in so little a time at Paris? 



C187 3 

La Fleur laid his hand upon his breast, and said 
't was a petite demoiselle, at Monsieur le Comte 
de B***'s. — La Fleur had a heart made for 
society; and, to speak the truth of him, let as 
few occasions slip him as his master — so that 
somehow or other — but how — Heaven knows 
— he had connected himself with the demoi- 
selle upon the landing of the staircase, during 
the time I was taken up with my Passport; and 
as there was time enough for me to win the 
Count to my interest. La Fleur had contrived 
to make it do to win the maid to his. — The 
family, it seems, was to be at Paris that day, 
and he had made a party with her, and two or 
three more of the Count's household, upon the 
boulevards, 

Happy people ! that once a week at least are 
sure to lay down all your cares together, and 
dance and sing, and sport away the weights of 
grievance, which bow down the spirit of other 
nations to the earth. 



Cl88] 



THE FRAGMENT 
PARIS 



LA FLEUR had left me something to 
amuse myself with for the day more 
than I had bargained for, or could have enter'd 
either into his head or mine. 

He had brought the little print of butter 
upon a currant-leaf; and as the morning was 
warm, he had begg'd a sheet of waste paper 
to put betwixt the currant-leaf and his hand. 
— As that was plate sufficient, I bad him lay 
it upon the table as it was; and as I resolved to 
stay within all day, I ordered him to call upon 
the traiteur, to bespeak my dinner, and leave 
me to breakfast by myself. 

When I had finished the butter, I threw the 
currant-leaf out of the window, and was going 
to do the same by the waste paper — but stop- 
ping to read a line first, and that drawing me 
on to a second and third — I thought it better 
worth ; so I shut the window, and drawing a 
chair up to it, I sat down to read it. 



[189;] 

It was in the old French of Rabelais's time, 
and for aught I know might have been wrote 
by him — it was moreover in a Gothic letter, 
and that so faded and gone off by damps and 
length of time, it cost me infinite trouble to 
make anything of it. — I threw it down; and 
then wrote a letter to Eugenius — then I took 
it up again and embroiled my patience with it 
afresh — and then to cure that, I wrote a letter 
to Eliza. — Still it kept hold of me ; and the 
difficulty of understanding it increased but the 
desire. 

I got my dinner; and after I had enlight- 
ened my mind with a bottle of Burgundy, I at 
it again — and after two or three hours' por- 
ing upon it, with almost as deep attention as 
ever Gruter or Jacob Spon did upon a nonsen- 
sical inscription, I thought I made sense of it; 
but to make sure of it, the best way, I imagined, 
was to turn it into English, and see how it would 
look then — so I went on leisurely as a trifling 
man does, sometimes writing a sentence — 
then taking a turn or two — and then looking 
how the world went out of the window ; so that 
it was nine o'clock at night before I had done 
it. — I then begun and read it as follows. 



THE FRAGMENT 
PARIS 

NOW as the notary's wife disputed the 
point with the notary with too much heat 
— I wish, said the notary, throwing down the 
parchment, that there was another notary here 
only to set down and attest all this. 

— And what would you do then. Monsieur? 
said she, rising hastily up — the notary's wife 
was a little fume of a woman, and the notary 
thought it well to avoid a hurricane by a mild 
reply — I would go, answered he, to bed. — 
You may go to the devil, answered the notary's 
wife. 

Now there happening to be but one bed in 
the house, the other two rooms being unfur- 
nished, as is the custom at Paris, and the notary 
not caring to lie in the same bed with a woman 
who had but that moment sent him pell-mell to 
the devil, went forth with his hat and cane and 
short cloak, the night being very windy, and 
walk'd out ill at ease towards the ^ont J^euf, 

Of all the bridges which ever were built, the 



whole world who have pass'd over the H^ont 
J^euf must own, that it is the noblest — the 
finest — the grandest — the lightest — the long- 
est — the broadest that ever conjoined land and 
land together upon the face of the terraqueous 
globe. — 

By this it seems as if the author of the frag- 
ment had not been a Frenchman. 

The worst fault which divines and the doc- 
tors of the Sorbonne can allege against it, is, that 
if there is but a capful of wind in or about Paris, 
'tis more blasphemously sacre T)ieu'A there 
than in any other aperture of the whole city — 
and with reason, good and cogent, Messieurs ; 
for it comes against you without crying garde 
d'eaUyRud with such unpremeditable puffs, that 
of the few who cross it with their hats on, not 
one in fifty but hazards two livres and a half, 
which is its full worth. 

The poor notary, just as he was passing by 
the sentry, instinctively clapp'd his cane to the 
side of it, but in raising it up, the point of his 
cane catching hold of the loop of the sentinel's 
hat, hoisted it over the spikes of the balustrade 
clear into the Seine. — 

— 'Tis an ill wind, said a boatsman,who catch'd 
it, which blows nobody any good. 



The sentry, being a Gascon, incontinently 
twirlM up his whiskers, and level'd his harque- 
bus. 

Harquebuses in those days went off with 
matches; and an old woman's paper lanthorn 
at the end of the bridge happening to be blown 
out, she had borrowed the sentry's match to 
hght it — it gave a moment's time for the Gas- 
con's blood to run cool, and turn the accident 
better to his advantage. — 'Tis an ill zvind, said 
he, catching off' the notary's castor, and legiti- 
mating the capture with the boatman's adage. 

The poor notary cross'd the bridge, and 
passing along the Rue de Dauphine into the 
fauxbourg of St. Germain, lamented himself 
as he walk'd along in this manner : 

Luckless man that I am! said the notary, to 
be the sport of hurricanes all my days — to be 
born to have the storm of ill language level'd 
against me and my profession wherever I go 
— to be forced into marriage by the thunder 
of the church to a tempest of a woman — to 
be driven forth out of my house by domestic 
winds, and despoil'd of my castor by pontific 
ones — to be here, bareheaded, in a windy night 
at the mercy of the ebbs and flows of accidents 
— where am I to lay my head? — miserable 



man ! what wind in the two and thirty points 
of the whole compass can blow unto thee, as it 
does to the rest of thy fellow-creatures, good ! 

As the notary was passing on by a dark pas- 
sage, complaining in this sort, a voice call'd out 
to a girl, to bid her run for the next notary — 
now the notary being the next, and availing 
himself of his situation, walked up the passage 
to the door, and passing through an old sort of 
a saloon, was usher'd into a large chamber, dis- 
mantled of everything but a long military pike 
— a breastplate — a rusty old sword, and ban- 
doleer, hung up equidistant in four different 
places against the wall. 

An old personage, who had heretofore been 
a gentleman, and unless decay of fortune taints 
the blood along with it, was a gentleman at that 
time, lay supporting his head upon his hand, in 
his bed ; a little table with a taper burning was 
set close beside it, and close by the table was 
placed a chair — the notary sat him down in it; 
and pulling out his inkhorn and a sheet or two 
of paper which he had in his pocket, he placed 
them before him, and dipping his pen in his ink, 
and leaning his breast over the table, he dis- 
posed everything to make the gentleman's last 
will and testament. 



Alas ! Monsieur le Notaire, said the gentle- 
man, raising himself up a little, I have nothing 
to bequeath, which will pay the expense of be- 
queathing, except the history of myself, which 
I could not die in peace unless I left it as a leg- 
acy to the world ; the profits arising out of it I 
bequeath to you for the pains of taking it from 
me — it is a story so uncommon, it must be read 
by all mankind — it will make the fortunes of 
your house — the notary dipp'd his pen into his 
inkhorn. — Almighty Director of every event 
in my life ! said the old gentleman, looking 
up earnestly, and raising his hands towards 
heaven — thou, whose hand hast led me on 
through such a labyrinth of strange passages 
down into this scene of desolation, assist the 
decaying memory of an old, infirm, and bro- 
ken-hearted man — direct my tongue by the 
spirit of thy eternal truth, that this stranger 
may set down naught but what is written in 
that Book, from whose records, said he, clasp- 
ing his hands together, I am to be condemned 
or acquitted! — The notary held up the point 
of his pen betwixt the taper and his eye. — 

— It is a story. Monsieur le Notaire, said the 
gentleman, which will rouse up every affec- 
tion in nature — it will kill the humane, and 



i:i95:i 

touch the heart of cruelty herself with pity. — 
— The notary was inflamed with a desire to 
begin, and put his pen a third time into his ink- 
horn — and the old gentleman turning a little 
more towards the notary, began to dictate his 
story in these words — 

— And where is the rest of it. La Fleur? 
said I, as he just then enter'd the room. 



[196] 



THE FRAGMENT AND THE 
BOUQUET* 

PARIS 



WHEN La Fleur came up close to the 
table, and was made to comprehend 
what I wanted, he told me there were only two 
other sheets of it, which he had wrapt round 
the stalks of a bouquet to keep it together, 
which he had presented to the demoiselle upon 
the boulevards. — Then prithee. La Fleur, said 
I, step back to her to the Count de B***'s 
hotel, and see if you can get it — There is no 
doubt of it, said La Fleur — and away he flew. 
In a very little time the poor fellow came 
back quite out of breath, with deeper marks of 
disappointment in his looks than could arise 
from the simple irreparability of the fragment. 
— Juste del ! in less than two minutes that the 
poor fellow had taken his last tender farewell 
of her — his faithless mistress had given his 
gage d' amour to one of the Count's footmen — 
* Nosegay. 



the footman to a young sempstress — and the 
sempstress to a fiddler, with my fragment at 
the end of it. — Our misfortunes were involved 
together — I gave a sigh — and La Fleur echo'd 
it back again to my ear. 

— How perfidious! cried La Fleur. — How 
unlucky! said L — 

— I should not have been mortified, Mon- 
sieur, quoth La Fleur, if she had lost it. — Nor 
I, La Fleur, said I, had I found it. 

Whether I did or no will be seen hereafter. 



[198;] 



THE ACT OF CHARITY 
PARIS 

THE man who either disdains or fears to 
walk up a dark entry, may be an excel- 
lent good man, and fit for a hundred things ; but 
he will not do to make a good sentimental trav- 
eler. I count little of the many things I see pass 
at broad noonday, in large and open streets. — 
Nature is shy, and hates to act before specta- 
tors ; but in such an unobserved corner you 
sometimes see a single short scene of hers, 
worth all the sentiments of a dozen French 
plays compounded together — and yet they 
are absolutely fine; — and whenever I have a 
more brilliant affair upon my hands than com- 
mon, as they suit a preacher just as well as a 
hero, I generally make my sermon out of 'em 
— and for the text — <«Cappadocia, Pontus and 
Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia" — is as good 
as any one in the Bible. 

There is a long dark passage issuing out 
from the Opera Comique into a narrow street; 



[199] 

'tis trod by a few who humbly wait for ^fiacre^^ 
or wish to get off quietly o' foot when the opera 
is done. At the end of it, towards the theatre, 
't is lighted by a small candle, the light of which 
is almost lost before you get half-way down, 
but near the door — 't is more for ornament 
than use : you see it as a fix'd star of the least 
magnitude; it burns — but does little good to 
the world, that we know of. 

In returning along this passage, I discern'd, 
as I approached within five or six paces of the 
door, two ladies standing arm in arm with their 
backs against the wall, waiting, as I imagined, 
for a fiacre — as they were next the door, I 
thought they had a prior right; so edged my- 
self up within a yard or little more of them, 
and quietly took my stand — I was in black, 
and scarce seen. 

The lady next me was a tall lean figure of 
a woman, of about thirty-six ; the other of the 
same size and make, of about forty; there was 
no mark of wife or widow in any one part of 
either of them — they seem'd to be two up- 
right vestal sisters, unsapp'd by caresses, un- 
broke in upon by tender salutations : I could 
have wish'd to have made them happy — their 

* Hackney-coach. 



C^oo;] 

happiness was destined, that night, to come 
from another quarter. 

A low voice, with a good turn of expression, 
and sweet cadence at the end of it, begg'd for 
a twelve-sou piece betwixt them, for the love 
of Heaven. I thought it singular that a beggar 
should fix the quota of an alms — and that the 
sum should be twelve times as much as what 
is usually given in the dark. They both seem'd 
astonish'd at it as much as myself. — Twelve 
sous ! said one. — A twelve-sou piece! said the 
other — and made no reply. 

The poor man said, he knew not how to ask 
less of ladies of their rank; and bow'd down his 
head to the ground. 

Poo ! said they — we have no money. 

The beggar remained silent for a moment 
or two, and renew'd his supplication. 

Do not, my fair young ladies, said he, stop 
your good ears against me. — Upon my word, 
honest man! said the younger, we have no 
change. — Then God bless you, said the poor 
man, and multiply those joys which you can 
give to others without change! — I observed 
the elder sister put her hand into her pocket. 
1 11 see, said she, if I have a sou. — A sou ! give 
twelve, said the supplicant; Nature has been 



bountiful to you, be bountiful to a poor man. 

I would, friend, with all my heart, said the 
younger, if I had it. 

My fair charitable ! said he, addressing him- 
self to the elder — what is it but your good- 
ness and humanity which makes your bright 
eyes so sweet, that they outshine the morning 
even in this dark passage? and what was it 
which made the Marquis de Santerre and his 
brother say so much of you both as they just 
passed by? 

The two ladies seemed much affected; and 
impulsively at the same time they both put 
their hands into their pocket, and each took 
out a twelve-sou piece. 

The contest betwixt them and the poor sup- 
plicant was no more — it was continued betwixt 
themselves, which of the two should give the 
twelve-sou piece in charity — and to end the 
dispute, they both gave it together, and the 
man went away. 



[SOS] 

THE RIDDLE EXPLAINED 
PARIS 

ISTEPP'D hastily after him: it was the 
very man whose success in asking charity 
of the women before the door of the hotel had 
so puzzled me — and I found at once his se- 
cret, or at least the basis of it — 't was flattery. 

Delicious essence ! how refreshing art thou 
to nature ! how strongly are all its powers and 
all its weaknesses on thy side ! how sweetly 
dost thou mix with the blood, and help it 
through the most difficult and tortuous pas- 
sages to the heart ! 

The poor man, as he was not straiten'd for 
time, had given it here in a larger dose : 't is 
certain he had a way of bringing it into less 
form, for the many sudden cases he had to do 
with in the streets ; but how he contrived to 
correct, sweeten, concentre, and qualify it — 
I vex not my spirit with the inquiry — it is 
enough, the beggar gain'd two twelve-sou 
pieces — and they can best tell the rest, who 
have gain'd much greater matters by it. 



C^os;] 



PARIS 



WE get forwards in the world, not so 
much by doing services, as receiving 
them ; you take a withering twig, and put it in 
the ground ; and then you water it because you 
have planted it. 

Monsieur le Comte de B***, merely be- 
cause he had done me one kindness in the affair 
of my passport, would go on and do me an- 
other, the few days he was at Paris, in making 
me known to a few people of rank ; and they 
were to present me to others, and so on. 

I had got master of my secret just in time 
to turn these honours to some little account ; 
otherwise, as is commonly the case, I should 
have din'd or supp'd a single time or two round, 
and then by translating French looks and atti- 
tudes into plain English, I should presently 
have seen, that I had got hold of the convert * 
of some more entertaining guest; and in course 
should have resigned all my places one after 
another, merely upon the principle that I could 

* Plate, napkin, knife, fork, and spoons. 



[204] 

not keep them. — As it was, things did not go 
much amiss. 

I had the honour of being introduced to the 
old Marquis de B***: in days of yore he had 
signahz'd himself by some small feats of chiv- 
alry in the Cour d' amour, and had dress'd him- 
self out to the idea of tilts and tournaments 
ever since — the Marquis de B*** wished to 
have it thought the affair was somewhere else 
than in his brain. " He could like to take a trip 
to England/' and ask'd much of the Enghsh 
ladies. Stay where you are, I beseech you Mon- 
sieur le Marquis, said I. — Les Messieurs An- 
glois can scarce get a kind look from them as it 
is. — The Marquis invited me to supper. 

Monsieur P*** the farmer-general was just 
as inquisitive about our taxes. — They were 
very considerable, he heard — If we knew but 
how to collect them, said I, making him a low 
bow. 

I could never have been invited to Monsieur 
P***'s concerts upon any other terms. 

I had been misrepresented to Madame de 
Q*** as an esprit, — Madame de Q*** was an 
esprit herself: she burnt with impatience to see 
me and hear me talk. I had not taken my seat, 
before I saw she did not care a sou whether I 



1:205:1 

had any wit or no — I was let in, to be con- 
vinced she had. — I call Heaven to witness I 
never once opened the door of my lips. 

Madame de Q*** vow'd to every creature 
she met, "she had never had a more improving 
conversation with a man in her life.'' 

There are three epochas in the empire of a 
Frenchwoman — She is coquette — then deist 
— then devote: the empire during these is 
never lost — she only changes her subjects: 
when thirty-five years and more have unpeo- 
pled her dominions of the slaves of love, she 
repeoples it with slaves of infidelity — and then 
with the slaves of the Church. 

Madame de V*** was vibrating betwixt the 
first of these epochas : the colour of the rose 
was shading fast away — she ought to have 
been a deist five years before the time I had the 
honour to pay my first visit. 

She placed me upon the same sofa with her, 
for the sake of disputing the point of rehgion 
more closely — In short Madame de V*** told 
me she believed nothing. 

I told Madame de V*** it might be her 
principle ; but I was sure it could not be her 
interest to level the outworks, without which 
I could not conceive how such a citadel as hers 



could be defended — that there was not a more 
dangerous thing in the world than for a beauty 
to be a deist — that it was a debt I owed my 
creed, not to conceal it from her — that I had 
not been five minutes sat upon the sofa besides 
her, but I had begun to form designs — and 
what is it but the sentiments of religion, and 
the persuasion they had existed in her breast, 
which could have checked them as they rose 
up? 

We are not adamant, said I, taking hold of 
her hand — and there is need of all restraints, 
till age in her own time steals in and lays them 
on us — but, my dear lady, said I, kissing her 
hand — 't is too — too soon — 

I declare I had the credit all over Paris of 
unperverting Madame de V***. — She af- 
firmed to Monsieur D*** and the Abbe M***, 
that in one half-hour I had said more for re- 
vealed religion than all their Encyclopaedia 
had said against it. — I was lifted directly into 
Madame de V***'s Coterie — and she put off 
the epocha of deism for two years. 

I remember it was in this Coterie, in the mid- 
dle of a discourse, in which I was showing the 
necessity of ?i first cause, that the young Count 
de Faineant took me by the hand to the furthest 



[207 3 

corner of the room to tell me my solitaire was 
pinn'd too straight about my neck. — It should 
he plus badinant yS2iid the Count, looking down 
upon his own — but a word, Monsieur Yorick, 
to the wise — 

— And from the wise, Monsieur le Comte, 
replied I, making him a bow — is enough. 

The Count de Faineant embraced me with 
more ardour than ever I was embraced by 
mortal man. 

For three weeks together, I was of every 
man's opinion I met. — Nardil ce ^JMonsieur 
Torick a autant d* esprit que nous autres. — // rai- 
Sonne bien, said another. — Cest un bon enfant, 
said a third. — And at this price I could have 
eaten and drank and been merry all the days 
of my life at Paris ; but 't was a dishonest reck- 
oning — I grew ashamed of it. — It was the gain 
of a slave — every sentiment of honour re- 
volted against it — the higher I got, the more 
was I forced upon my beggarly system — the 
better the Coterie — the more children of Art 
— I languished for those of Nature: and one 
night, after a most vile prostitution of myself 
to half a dozen different people, I grew sick — 
went to bed — order 'd La Fleur to get me 
horses in the morning to set out for Italy. 



[208] 



MARIA 
MOULINES 



I NEVER felt what the distress of plenty was 
in any one shape till now — to travel it 
through the Bourbonnois, the sweetest part of 
France — in the heyday of the vintage, when 
Nature is pouring her abundance into every 
one's lap, and every eye is lifted up — a jour- 
ney through each step of which Music beats 
time to Labour, and all her children are rejoic- 
ing as they carry in their clusters — to pass 
through this with my affections flying out, and 
kindling at every group before me — and every 
one of 'em was pregnant with adventures. 

Just heaven ! — it would fill up twenty vol- 
umes — and alas ! I have but a few small pages 
left of this to crowd it into — and half of these 
must be taken up with the poor Maria my friend 
Mr. Shandy met with near Moulines. 

The story he had told of that disordered maid 
affected me not a little in the reading ; but when 
I got within the neighbourhood where she liv'd, 



it returned so strong into my mind, that I could 
not resist an impulse which prompted me to go 
half a league out of the road, to the village 
where her parents dwelt, to inquire after her. 

'Tis going, I own, like the Knight of the 
Woeful Countenance, in quest of melancholy- 
adventures — but I know not how it is, but I 
am never so perfectly conscious of the exist- 
ence of a soul within me, as when I am entan- 
gled in them. 

The old mother came to the door, her looks 
told me the story before she open'd her mouth. 
— She had lost her husband; he had died, she 
said, of anguish, for the loss of Maria's senses, 
about a month before. — She had feared at first, 
she added, that it would have plundered her 
poor girl of what little understanding was left 
— but, on the contrary, it had brought her more 
to herself — still she could not rest — her poor 
daughter, she said, crying, was wandering 
somewhere about the road — 

— Why does my pulse beat languid as I 
write this } and what made La Fleur, whose 
heart seem'd only to be tun'd to joy, to pass 
the back of his hand twice across his eyes, as 
the woman stood and told it? I beckon'd to the 
postilion to turn back into the road. 



When we had got within half a league of 
Moulines, at a little opening in the road lead- 
ing to a thicket, I discovered poor Maria sit- 
ting under a poplar — she was sitting with her 
elbow in her lap, and her head leaning on one 
side within her hand — a small brook ran at the 
foot of the tree. 

I bid the postilion go on with the chaise to 
Moulines — and La Fleur to bespeak my sup- 
per — and that I would walk after him. 

She was dress 'd in white, and much as my 
friend described her, except that her hair hung 
loose, which before was twisted within a silk 
net. — She had, superadded likewise to her 
jacket, a pale-green ribband, which fell across 
her shoulder to the waist; at the end of which 
hung her pipe. — Her goat had been as faith- 
less as her lover : and she had got a little dog 
in lieu of him, which she had kept tied by a 
string to her girdle : as I look'd at her dog, she 
drew him towards her with the string. — "Thou 
shalt not leave me, Sylvio,'' said she. I looked 
in Maria's eyes, and saw she was thinking 
more of her father than of her lover or her 
little goat ; for as she utter 'd them, the tears 
trickled down her cheeks. 

I sat down close by her ; and Maria let me 



wipe them away as they fell, with my hand- 
kerchief. — I then steep'd it in my own — and 
then in hers — and then in mine — and then I 
wip'd hers again — and as I did it, I felt such 
undescribable emotions within me, as I am sure 
could not be accounted for from any combina- 
tions of matter and motion. 

I am positive I have a soul ; nor can all the 
books with which materialists have pestered the 
world ever convince me of the contrary. 



[212;] 



MARIA 



WHEN Maria had come a little to her- 
self, I ask'd her if she remembered a 
pale thin person of a man, who had sat down 
betwixt her and her goat about two years be- 
fore? She said, she was unsettled much at that 
time, but remembered it upon two accounts 
— that ill as she was, she saw the person pit- 
ied her; and next, that her goat had stolen his 
handkerchief, and she had beat him for the 
theft — she had wash'd it, she said, in the brook, 
and kept it ever since in her pocket to restore 
it to him in case she should ever see him again, 
which, she added, he had half promised her. 
As she told me this, she took the handkerchief 
out of her pocket to let me see it ; she had 
folded it up neatly in a couple of vine-leaves, 
tied round with a tendril — on opening it, I saw 
an S mark'd in one of the corners. 

She had since that, she told me, strayed as 
far as Rome, and walk'd round St. Peter's 
once — and returned back — that she found her 
way alone across the Apennines — had trav- 



[213;] 

el'd over all Lombardy without money — and 
through the flinty roads of Savoy without shoes 
— how she had borne it, and how she had got 
supported, she could not tell — but ^od tem- 
pers the windy said Maria, to the shorn lamb. 

Shorn indeed ! and to the quick, said I ; and 
wast thou in my own land, where I have a cot- 
tage, I would take thee to it and shelter thee : 
thou should St eat of my own bread and drink 
of my own cup — I would be kind to thy Syl- 
vio — in all thy weaknesses and wanderings I 
would seek after thee and bring thee back — 
when the sun went down I would say my pray- 
ers ; and when I had done thou shouldst play 
thy evening song upon thy pipe, nor would the 
incense of my sacrifice be worse accepted for 
entering heaven along with that of a broken 
heart. 

Nature melted within me, as I utter'd this ; 
and Maria observing, as I took out my hand- 
kerchief, that it was steep'd too much already 
to be of use, would needs go wash it in the 
stream. — And where will you dry it, Maria? 
said I. — ril dry it in my bosom, said she — 
't will do me good. 

And is your heart still so warm, Maria ? 
said I. 



[214;] 

I touch 'd upon the string on which hung all 
her sorrows — she looked with wistful disorder 
for some time in my face ; and then, without 
saying anything, took her pipe, and play'd 
her service to the Virgin. — The string I had 
touch'd ceased to vibrate — in a moment or 
two Maria returned to herself — let her pipe 
fall — and rose up. 

And where are you going, Maria? said I. — 
She said, to Moulines. — Let us go, said I, to- 
gether. — Maria put her arm within mine, and 
lengthening the string, to let the dog follow — 
in that order we entered Moulines. 



C^iO 



MARIA 
MOULINES 



THO' I hate salutations and greetings in 
the market-place, yet when we got into 
the middle of this, I stopped to take my last 
look and last farewell of Maria. 

Maria, tho' not tall, was nevertheless of the 
firstorder of fine forms — affliction had touched 
her looks with something that w^as scarce 
earthly — still she was feminine — and so much 
was there about her of all that the heart wishes, 
or the eye looks for in woman, that could the 
traces be ever worn out of her brain, and those 
of Eliza's out of mine, she should not only eat 
of my bread and drink of my own cup, but Maria 
should lay in my bosom, and be unto me as a 
daughter. 

Adieu, poor luckless maiden ! — Imbibe the 
oil and wine which the compassion of a stran- 
ger, as he journey eth on his way, now pours 
into thy wounds — the being who has twice 
bruised thee can only bind them up forever. 



[216] 



THE BOURBONNOIS 



THERE was nothing from which I had 
painted out for myself so joyous a riot 
of the affections, as in this journey in the vint- 
age, through this part of France; but pressing 
through this gate of sorrow to it, my sufferings 
have totally unfitted me: in every scene of fes- 
tivity I saw Maria in the background of the 
piece, sitting pensive under her poplar; and I 
had got almost to Lyons before I was able to 
cast a shade across her. — 

— Dear sensibility ! source inexhausted of 
all that 's precious in our joys, or costly in our 
sorrows ! thou chainest thy martyr down upon 
his bed of straw — and 'tis thou who lift'st him 
up to Heaven — eternal fountain of our feel- 
ings ! — 't is here I trace thee — and this is thy 
divinity which stirs within me — not that in 
some sad and sickening moments, ''my soul 
shrinks back upon herself, and startles at destruc- 
tion'* — mere pomp of words ! — but that I feel 
some generous joys and generous cares be- 
yond myself — all comes from thee, great 



— great Sensorium of the world! which vi- 
brates, if a hair of our heads but falls upon the 
ground, in the remotest desert of thy creation. 
— Touched with thee,Eugenius draws my cur- 
tain when I languish — hears my tale of symp- 
toms, and blames the weather for the disorder 
of his nerves. Thou giv'st a portion of it some- 
times to the roughest peasant who traverses 
the bleakest mountains — he finds the lacer- 
ated lamb of another's flock. — This moment 
I beheld him leaning with his head against his 
crook, with piteous inclination looking down 
upon it. — Oh ! had I come one moment sooner ! 
— it bleeds to death — his gentle heart bleeds 
with it — 

Peace to thee, generous swain! — I see thou 
walkest off with anguish — but thy joys shall 
balance it — for happy is thy cottage — and 
happy is the sharer of it — and happy are the 
lambs which sport about you. 



[218:] 



THE SUPPER 



A SHOE coming loose from the fore foot 
of the thill-horse, at the beginning of 
the ascent of mount Taurira, the postilion dis- 
mounted, twisted the shoe off, and put it in his 
pocket ; as the ascent was of five or six miles, 
and that horse our main dependence, I made a 
point of having the shoe fastened on again, as 
well as we could ; but the postilion had throvm 
away the nails, and the hammer in the chaise- 
box being of no great use without them, I sub- 
mitted to go on. 

He had not mounted half a mile higher, 
when coming to a flinty piece of road, the poor 
devil lost a second shoe, and from off his other 
fore foot. I then got out of the chaise in good 
earnest; and seeing a house about a quarter of 
a mile to the left hand, with a great deal to do 
I prevailed upon the postilion to turn up to it. 
The look of the house, and of everything about 
it, as we drew nearer, soon reconciled me to 
the disaster. — It was a little farm-house, sur- 
rounded with about twenty acres of vineyard. 



c;2i9:i 

about as much corn — and close to the house, 
on one side, was a potagerie of an acre and 
a half, full of everything which could make 
plenty in a French peasant's house — and on 
the other side was a little wood, which fur- 
nished wherewithal to dress it. It was about 
eight in the evening when I got to the house — 
so I left the postilion to manage his point as he 
could — and for mine, I walk'd directly into 
the house. 

The family consisted of an old gray-headed 
man and his wife, with five or six sons and 
sons-in-law, and their several wives, and a joy- 
ous genealogy out of them. 

They were all sitting down together to their 
lentil soup ; a large wheaten loaf was in the 
middle of the table ; and a flagon of wine at 
each end of it, promised joy thro' the stages of 
the repast — 't was a feast of love. 

The old man rose up to meet me, and with 
a respectful cordiality would have me sit down 
at the table ; my heart was sat down the mo- 
ment I enter'd the room ; so I sat down at once 
like a son of the family ; and to invest myself 
in the character as speedily as I could, I in- 
stantly borrowed the old man's knife, and tak- 
ing up the loaf, cut myself a hearty luncheon ; 



[;220] 

and as I did it, I saw a testimony in every eye, 
not only of an honest welcome, but of a wel- 
come mix'd with thanks that I had not seem'd 
to doubt it. 

Was it this ; or tell me, Nature, what else 
it was which made this morsel so sweet — and 
to what magic I owe it, that the draught I took 
of their flagon was so delicious with it, that 
they remain upon my palate to this hour ? 

If the supper was to my taste — the grace 
which follow'd it was much more so. 



[221] 



THE GRACE 



WHEN supper was over, the old man 
gave a knock upon the table with the 
haft of his knife — to bid them prepare for 
the dance : the moment the signal was given, 
the women and girls ran all together into a 
back apartment to tie up their hair — and the 
young men to the door to wash their faces, 
and change their sabots ; and in three minutes 
every soul was ready upon a little esplanade 
before the house to begin. — The old man and 
his wife came out last, and placing me betwixt 
them, sat down upon a sofa of turf by the door. 

The old man had some fifty years ago been 
no mean performer upon the vielle — and, at 
the age he was then of, touched it well enough 
for the purpose. His wife sung now and then 
a little to the tune — then intermitted — and 
join'd her old man again as their children and 
grandchildren danced before them. 

It was not till the middle of the second 
dance, when from some pauses in the move- 
ment wherein they all seem'd to look up, I fan- 



cied I could distinguish an elevation of spirit 
different from that which is the cause or the 
effect of simple jollity. — In a word, I thought 
I beheld Religion mixing in the dance — but 
as I had never seen her so engaged, I should 
have looked upon it now as one of the illusions 
of an imagination which is eternally misleading 
me, had not the old man, as soon as the dance 
ended, said that this was their constant way; 
and that all his life long he had made it a rule, 
after supper was over, to call out his family to 
dance and rejoice ; believing, he said, that a 
cheerful and contented mind was the best sort 
of thanks to heaven that an illiterate peasant 
could pay — 

— Or a learned prelate either, said I. 



[223] 



THE CASE OF DELICACY 



WHEN you have gain'd the top of mount 
Taurira, you run presently down to 
Lyons — adieu then to all rapid movements ! 
'Tis a journey of caution; and it fares better 
with sentiments, not to be in a hurry with 
them; so I contracted with a voiturin to take 
his time with a couple of mules, and convey me 
in my own chaise safe to Turin through Savoy. 

Poor, patient, quiet, honest people ! fear not: 
your poverty, the treasury of your simple vir- 
tues, will not be envied you by the world, nor 
will your valleys be invaded by it. — Nature ! 
in the midst of thy disorders, thou art still 
friendly to the scantiness thou hast created — 
with all thy great works about thee, little hast 
thou left to give, either to the scythe or to the 
sickle — but to that little thou grantest safety 
and protection; and sweet are the dwellings 
which stand so sheltered. 

Let the wayworn traveler vent his com- 
plaints upon the sudden turns and dangers of 
your roads — your rocks — your precipices — 



[224] 

the difficulties of getting up — the horrors of 
getting down — mountains impracticable — 
and cataracts, which roll down great stones 
from their summits, and block his road up. — 
The peasants had been all day at work in re- 
moving a fragment of this kind between St. 
Michael and Madane; and by the time my voi- 
turin got to the place, it wanted full two hours 
of completing before a passage could any how 
be gain'd : there was nothing but to wait with 
patience — 'twas a wet and tempestuous night: 
so that by the delay, and that together, the 
voiturin found himself obliged to take up five 
miles short of his stage at a little decent kind 
of an inn by the roadside. 

I forthwith took possession of my bedcham- 
ber — got a good fire — ordered supper; and 
was thanking heaven it was no worse — when 
a voiture arrived with a lady in it and her ser- 
vant-maid. 

As there was no other bedchamber in the 
house, the hostess, without much nicety, led 
them into mine, telling them, as she usher'd 
them in, that there was nobody in it but an 
English gentleman — that there were two good 
beds in it, and a closet within the room which 
held another. — The accent in which she spoke 



[225^ 

of this third bed did not say much for it — how- 
ever, she said there were three beds, and but 
three people — and she durst say, the gentle- 
man would do anything to accommodate mat- 
ters. — I left not the lady a moment to make a 
conjecture about it — so instantly made a de- 
claration I would do anything in my power. 

As this did not amount to an absolute sur- 
render of my bedchamber, I still felt myself so 
much the proprietor, as to have a right to do 
the honours of it — so I desired the lady to sit 
down — pressed her into the warmest seat — 
call'd for more wood — desired the hostess to 
enlarge the plan of the supper, and to favour 
us with the very best wine. 

The lady had scarce warm'd herself five 
minutes at the fire before she began to turn 
her head back, and give a look at the beds; and 
the oftener she cast her eyes that way, the 
more they returned perplex'd. — I felt for her 
— and for myself; for in a few minutes, what 
by her looks, and the case itself, I found my- 
self as much embarrassed as it was possible the 
lady could be herself. 

That the beds we were to lay in were in one 
and the same room, was enough simply by it- 
self to have excited all this — but the position 



^226] 

of them, for they stood parallel, and so very- 
close to each other, as only to allow space for 
a small wicker chair betwixt them, rendered 
the affair still more oppressive to us — they 
were fixed up moreover near the fire, and the 
projection of the chimney on one side, and a 
large beam which cross'd the room on the 
other, form'd a kind of recess for them that 
was no way favourable to the nicety of our 
sensations — if anything could have added to 
it, it was that the two beds were both of 'em 
so very small as to cut us off from every idea 
of the lady and the maid lying together; which 
in either of them, could it have been feasible, 
my lying besides them, tho' a thing not to be 
wish'd, yet there was nothing in it so terrible 
which the imagination might not have pass'd 
over without torment. 

As for the little room within, it offered little 
or no consolation to us ; \ was a damp cold clo- 
set, with a half-dismantled window-shutter, 
and with a window which had neither glass or 
oil paper in it to keep out the tempest of the 
night. I did not endeavour to stifle my cough 
when the lady gave a peep into it ; so it re- 
duced the case in course to this alternative — 
that the lady should sacrifice her health to her 



[227] 

feelings, and take up with the closet herself, 
and abandon the bed next mine to her maid — 
or that the girl should take the closet, &c. &c. 

The lady was a Piedmontese of about thirty, 
with a glow of health in her cheeks. — The 
maid was a Lyonnoise of twenty, and as brisk 
and hvely a French girl as ever moved. — 
There were difficulties every way — and the 
obstacle of the stone in the road, which brought 
us into the distress, great as it appeared whilst 
the peasants were removing it, was but a peb- 
ble to what lay in our ways now. — I have only 
to add, that it did not lessen the weight which 
hung upon our spirits, that we were both too 
delicate to communicate what we felt to each 
other upon the occasion. 

We sat down to supper; and had we not had 
more generous wine to it than a httle inn in 
Savoy could have furnished, our tongues had 
been tied up, till necessity herself had set them 
at liberty — but the lady having a few bottles 
of Burgundy in her voiture, sent down her 
Fille de Chambre for a couple of them; so 
that by the time supper was over, and we were 
left alone, we felt ourselves inspired with a 
strength of mind sufficient to talk, at least, 
without reserve upon our situation. We turn'd 



^228;] 

it every way, and debated and considered it in 
all kind of lights in the course of a two hours' 
negotiation ; at the end of which the articles 
were settled finally betwixt us, and stipulated 
for in form and manner of a treaty of peace — 
and I believe with as much religion and good 
faith on both sides, as in any treaty which has 
yet had the honour of being handed down to 
posterity. 

They were as follows: 

First. As the right of the bedchamber is in 
Monsieur — and he thinking the bed next to 
the fire to be the warmest, he insists upon the 
concession on the lady's side of taking up with 
it. 

Granted, on the part of Madame; with a 
proviso, that as the curtains of that bed are of 
a flimsy transparent cotton, and appear like- 
wise too scanty to draw close, that the Fille de 
Chambre shall fasten up the opening, either 
by corking-pins, or needle and thread, in such 
manner as shall be deem'd a sufficient barrier 
on the side of Monsieur. 

2dly. It is required on the part of Ma- 
dame, that Monsieur shall lay the whole night 
through in his robe de chambre. 

Rejected: inasmuch as Monsieur is not 



worth a robe de chambre ; he having nothing 
in his portmanteau but six shirts and a black 
silk pair of breeches. 

The mentioning the silk pair of breeches 
made an entire change of the article — for the 
breeches were accepted as an equivalent for 
the robe de chambre; and so it was stipulated 
and agreed upon, that I should lay in my black 
silk breeches all night. 

sdly. It was insisted upon, and stipulated 
for by the lady, that after Monsieur was got to 
bed, and the candle and fire extinguished, that 
Monsieur should not speak one single word 
the whole night. 

Granted ; provided Monsieur's saying his 
prayers might not be deem'd an infraction of 
the treaty. 

There was but one point forgot in this 
treaty, and that was the manner in which the 
lady and myself should be obliged to undress 
and get to bed — there was but one way of 
doing it, and that I leave to the reader to de- 
vise; protesting as I do, that if it is not the 
most delicate in nature, 't is the fault of his own 
imagination — against which this is not my 
first complaint. 

Now when we were got to bed, whether it 



[23o;] 

was the novelty of the situation, or what it was, 
I know not; but so it was, I could not shut my 
eyes ; I tried this side and that, and turn'd and 
turn'd again, till a full hour after midnight; 
when Nature and patience both wearing out 
— O my God ! said I — 

— You have broke the treaty. Monsieur, 
said the lady, who had no more slept than my- 
self. — I begg'd a thousand pardons — but in- 
sisted it was no more than an ejaculation — 
she maintained 'twas an entire infraction of 
the treaty — I maintained it was provided for 
in the clause of the third article. 

The lady would by no means give up her 
point, tho' she weakened her barrier by it; for 
in the warmth of the dispute, I could hear two 
or three corking-pins fall out of the curtain to 
the ground. 

Upon my word and honour, Madame, said 
I — stretching my arm out of bed by way of 
asseveration — 

— (I was going to have added, that I would 
not have trespass 'd against the remotest idea 
of decorum for the world ) — 

— But the Fille de Chambre hearing there 
were words between us, and fearing that hos- 
tilities would ensue in course, had crept silently 



[231] 

out of her closet, and it being totally dark, had 
stolen so close to our beds, that she had got 
herself into the narrow passage which sepa- 
rated them, and had advanced so far up as to 
be in a line betwixt her mistress and me — 

So that when I stretched out my hand, I 
caught hold of the Fille de Chambre's — 



THREE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-FIVE COPIES 
PRINTED AT THE RIVERSIDE PRESS CAM- 
BRIDGE MASSACHUSETTS U.S.A. NO. 5 3 




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